


Float Away

by ninelittlesongbirds



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24839971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninelittlesongbirds/pseuds/ninelittlesongbirds
Summary: In a district known for its volunteers, Annie Cresta has never had any intention of giving her life to the Capital and their precious Hunger Games.  But what Annie wants, and her reality never quite seem to line up.Finnick and Annie's story from the 70th Annual Hunger Games onward.
Relationships: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Comments: 30
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

Reaping day has always been something of a joke in District Four. With more than enough potential tributes to ensure there is both a male and female volunteer each year, most of us go into the reaping safe in the knowledge that we will never have to be part of a game we have no intention of playing. Instead, the whole thing is treated like a party. A rare day off. The volunteers, who are always known in advance, are celebrated and lauded. Most people in the district conveniently ignoring the fact that at least one tribute will make their grand return to Four in a wooden box. More than likely, both will. 

The sun wakes me that morning, purposely left open curtains allowing the light to pull me from my slumber. Usually, it would be my Father who wakes me, especially on a day like today. A natural early riser, he would come to my room with breakfast and gently ignore my protests as I fought for an extra few minutes of rest. Today however, he is on a boat. A last-minute sailing expedition that had demanded his immediate attention. Something to do with a potential lack of shellfish in the Capital. And just like that he had gone.  
That is simply what happens here in Panem. The Capital demands, and we bend over backwards to provide. 

My Father captains fishing boats. It is all I can ever remember him doing. He joined a crew at sixteen. An orphan, he had been determined to escape a life of poverty and the misery of the children’s homes. The job means he’s gone a lot. When I was younger this resulted in plenty of visits to the Turner’s next door. Nowadays, it means I must sleep with the curtains open in order to wake myself up each morning, and spend my days pottering about an empty house. 

A silent groan escapes my lips as the suns merciless rays pull me from a dreamless sleep. Dragging the sheet over my head, I allow myself a few extra minutes in bed before silent resignation kicks in. It’s time to get up. Slipping my feet into slippers, I slowly make my way to the kitchen to start boiling water. Whilst we live in one of the wealthier areas of town, hot water is still a luxury few can afford. In fact, I doubt it exists anywhere but the Mayors house and the Victor’s Village. 

It takes some time to fill the bath, and another ten minutes whilst I wait for the water to cool. On other days perhaps I would have taken to the beach near our home or made a cup of herbal tea with seaweed whilst I waited. Coffee would have been preferable, but it is a luxury we rarely splurge on. Today however, I resort to sitting by the bathtub, gingerly testing the waters temperature every few minutes before finally deciding it’s cool enough. Peeling off my nightgown and slippers, I grimace as I step into the water. It’s still far too hot but I’m in now, and somehow getting out feels like an unnecessary effort. And so, I grit my teeth and slowly lower myself down into the boiling water. 

Back in my room, I let the towel fall to the floor as I make my way to the small cupboard that holds my clothes. Hands reach instinctively for the nicest thing I own. A green dress, which falls just below the knees with delicate lace trim. It’s not mine. It had belonged to my Mother, and when she had died giving birth to the twins who were meant to be my siblings, I had inherited it. It’s only in the last year I’ve truly fit into it. The fabric’s still a little loose around the bust, whilst simultaneously being too snug at the arms, but there is no denying its beauty.

Slipping the dress over my head, I set to work untangling the mass of knots that is my still damp hair before finally slipping a headband on to keep it out of my face. My hair will dry on the walk to the town centre. With a small sigh, I find myself staring hard at the mirror, lips pursed at my reflection. I’m not my Mother, who is as beautiful in photographs as she is in my distant memories, but it would have to do. Besides, it didn’t really matter. The camera would focus on the poor soul who had to go through the discomfort of standing on the stage for a few short minutes before Delta Hayden, that years volunteer, would take her place. From that moment on the focus would be entirely upon the blond girl who had chosen to represent our district. The rest of us will be no more than a shoal of fish caught in a net, swimming awkwardly together in the confined space until finally we are released.

All efforts at making any last minute’s adjustments to my appearance are put on hold as a knock at the door catches my attention. Huffing a final sigh of resignation, I hurriedly grab my shoes and clumsily pull them on as I made my way downstairs to the front door. 

“Big day, Annie.” The words are out of his mouth before I have fully opened the door, an excitement filling his tone that makes me want to frown, or maybe even break down and weep. 

“It is.” I say in return, trying to keep my smile from turning grim. Though the shift in his expression suggests I haven’t quite manage the feat. “C’mon, let’s go.” I sigh, not wanting to get into a bickering contest I know I will lose. Murray had always been stubborn, even in childhood. But when it came to his volunteering for the games, he could turn downright mean. 

Volunteering has always been a part of District Four. Children start training young and are whittled down until only two tributes remained each year. One boy and one girl. The names were known years in advance, and it is almost always these tributes that find themselves in the arena. Not every time though. A few years back, a brutish eighteen-year-old, Maxim, had been expected to represent the district. But just as he had volunteered, so had another boy. I can’t remember much of what had happened, I had been near the back with the other thirteen-year-old girls and could barely see anything over the tops of the heads of those far older than me. But somehow, in the end, Maxim had been forced to return to his place amongst the crowd and Finnick Odair had taken the stage. 

Finnick had won his games in the end. A rather resounding victory, in fact. Becoming the youngest victor in history through the help of a trident and a legion of adoring fans in the Capital. I can’t help but wonder if Maxim would have enjoyed the same fate. 

Still, it was one thing watching the volunteers happily accept what will likely be their imminent death and another thing entirely knowing your best friend is going to be one of them. Murray Turner is the closest thing I had to a brother. We laugh like sibling, we talk like siblings, we even fight like siblings. It is not a friendship forged in similarities. In fact, if we met nowadays I doubt we would be more than distant acquaintances. Instead, we are two people who have been forced together for such a long period of time that we can no longer imagine life without having to endure the other person. The thought of never seeing him again is shockingly painful to think about. Because while Murray is a model tribute. Tall and broad shouldered, who can throw a spear further than any of the men I’ve seen working on my Father’s boat. He was still one of twenty-four people who are going to be fighting to survive.

And those odds are in nobodies’ favour. 

Hurrying out the door before Murray can say anything else, I make my way over to the rest of the Turner’s, along with Alicia, Murray’s girlfriend. She’s already nineteen, and as a result is no longer forced to take part in the reaping like the rest of us. I can never quite tell how she feels about the boy she loves offering himself up to the Capital. Sometimes, she seems wholeheartedly supportive. Other times, I can see the glimmer of fear in her eyes when the subject is brought up. 

Today, she has taken on the role of supportive girlfriend with ease. Her arm wraps briefly around Murray’s shoulder before she reaches over to adjust my headband, pulling two still damp strands out to frame my face. “There you go.” She says kindly, before turning her attention back to Murray who has slung an arm over her shoulder. I like Alicia. She’s good for Murray. A reminder that not everything in his life has to be about the games. “Maybe you’ll even get a few minutes of screen time, if you’re lucky.” She notes, an edge of sarcasm creeping into her voice which causes an involuntary smile to pull at the edges of my lips. 

“Oh, here’s hoping.” I return with equal vigour. In fact, nobody except those who choose to volunteer want anything to do with screen time. Since being on screen all too likely means you’re the poor soul whose name has been reaped. Expected to go to the capital if no-one volunteers to take your place. 

In reality, since there is always someone to take your place, being chosen at the reaping simply means a few minutes of embarrassment whilst you momentarily panic that this years chosen tribute has forgotten they need to volunteer in order to relieve you from your certain death. 

It is a relatively short walk to the town centre. The crowd has already started to gather and immediately something feels off. There is a nervousness in the air, especially amongst the girls. You can see them whispering hurriedly to each other, gazes moving quickly around the plethora of people in search of something. Murray gives me a questioning look before his shoulder’s pull into a shrug. Whatever it is, I am sure we’ll find out soon enough. 

The goodbyes are short. I hug Mary and Ethan, Murray’s parents’ goodbye and then Alicia squeezes my hand gently. I suspect we’re all going to need each other in the next few weeks. Finally, I pull Murray into a hug. 

“Well, try not to embarrass yourself in front of the whole of Panem.” I whisper in what I hope is a joking voice, though the lump in my throat demands to be felt and causes the last word to be choked out. 

“Make me sound good when they come to interview you.” He returns, though he is grinning stupidly at me. As if the entire thing is a joke. “Otherwise, I won’t let you come visit me in the Victors Village.” 

“A true shame.” I laugh slightly, though my eyes are now red and tears are finally threatening to spill over. Hastily, I wipe them. “I’ll see you soon.” And then I make my exit, heading towards the sign in area. Leaving the Turner’s and Alicia to the real goodbyes. I may be a strange pseudo-sibling, but I’m not a real part of the family. Staying feels wrong somehow.

It takes less than ten minutes to get through the queue to register my name as being present. The woman doesn’t bother to look at me and holding my now pulsing finger, I give a slightly awkward smile before making my way to the small area that holds the districts eighteen-year-old girls. As the oldest, we are at the very front. The ones who are most likely to be picked. 

Usually there is a bored air to the group. We have been through the reaping so many times now, it has lost almost all effect on us. Today however, you can see the nerves clear on each persons’ face as they hurriedly whisper to one another, eyes glancing to the glass ball which holds our names. 

“What’s going on?” I whisper, joining a small group of girls I sometimes sit with at school, eyebrows etched together in confusion. Clearly, I have missed something important.  
“Delta’s out.” Penny, a tall blonde girl in a pretty pink dress whispers back. Her lips bare the remembrance of teeth marks, where nerves have caused her to bite down hard on her bottom lip. 

“Something about her ankle.” Adds Leila, as my gaze flickers over to the roped off area where the sixteen-year-old girls are held, trying to spot Delta in the crowd. Though the crowd is too thick, and they are too far away for me to pick out her face. 

“Someone else will volunteer. There’s always a volunteer.” I say. The words are meant to be dismissive but even I cannot miss the edge of doubt that has crept into my tone. Because who is going to replace her? Whatever Delta has done to her ankle, the injury is recent. Maybe even from this morning. Was there enough time to ready another tribute? “Are you sure?” I ask. Rumours were known to spread like wildfire, especially with such a touchy subject. Maybe they’re wrong. 

“My Dad was the one who saw to her leg.” Penny replied, and the distress is clear on her face. “He said she can barely put weight on it.” 

Then she is most definitely out. The games are brutal. Volunteering is always risky, but volunteering with an injury is basically the equivalent of tying the noose around your own neck.

There’s barely time to register panic however, because within seconds the familiar sound of District Fours Mayor begins to echo around the city square. Televisions will be broadcasting him in crowded off streets, since only a very small section of the population can fit in the square, as well as in every household in Panem. Don’t they get bored of it all? I know I am. It’s the same speech every year, about the beginnings of Panem, and the dark days which followed, finally culminating in the Hunger Games. The way he explains it, you would think the games were a celebration, rather than twenty-four children fighting to the death. 

And then it is Eilidh Gold’s turn to take to the stage. She has been District Fours escort for as long as I can remember, though it is remarkable how little she ages. Her hair, her lipstick, her outfit. It is all the same obnoxious shade of bubblegum pink. It must be her favourite colour, because whilst the outfits and hairstyles change every year, the colour is always the same. Briefly, I can’t help but wonder if I could ever be as devoted to something as Eilidh is to the colour pink. But then her hand is reaching into the glass bowl, and all I can summon is one selfish thought. Please don’t let it be me. 

The others react before I do, stepping away as if the air around me has turned suddenly toxic. Perhaps they think standing too close will somehow pass my death sentence onto them as well. 

Because the name she has called is Annie Cresta.


	2. Chapter 2

“Annie Cresta.” Eilidh Gold has to say the name a second time because I have not immediately responded. Instead, I am staring blankly at the woman who had just pulled my name from the bowl, wondering if I am imagining the entire experience. 

But of course I’m not. 

Finally, it is a gentle nudge on the shoulder from an unknown hand that prompts movement from my shellshocked body. My feet shuffle silently forward and the crowd parts easily to let me through, giving the impression that I am too dangerous to be near. 

Maybe they simply do not like the idea of touching a soon to be dead girl. 

It is a fight to keep my face neutral, when all my lips want to do is quiver. But right now, every single camera in District Four is on me. Every person in Panem is watching me or will be during that nights televised recap. I cannot appear terrified, or ready to plead for someone to take my place. Sponsors never respond well to those who cry or appear meek, at least that’s what Murray once told me. You can understand why of course. If you can’t make it through the reaping without tears, what are your chances when someone comes at you with a sword? 

I give myself the walk to try and pull it together, but all too quickly I am at the steps and an outstretched hand is helping me up. I barely notice who it belongs to until I look up to mutter a small thanks and am met with the bronzed haired victor who won his games just five years beforehand. He nods at me before going back to his seat and I am left to complete the last few steps of my journey towards Eilidh alone. 

Amongst the crowd, I can see Murray’s face has lost a little of its colour. Maybe I can convince him to kill me before another tribute decides to make a spectacle of my death? It’s cruel perhaps, to request such a thing from your best friend. But it will also potentially get him more sponsors. Being the ruthless killer who murdered the girl tribute from his own district. Because we both know I’m no a victor. And with Murray, at least it would be a quick death. 

Not every tribute gets that luxury. 

Eilidh says a few words I don’t quite catch, and then she is asking for volunteers. The request is met with silence. You could hear a pin drop. For a moment, the pink haired woman is temporarily flustered by this. It has been so long since the original reaped tribute had found themselves staying on the stage for longer than a few minutes that she is not quite sure what to do with me. Though to her credit, she pulls it together quickly.

I however, am internally crumbling.

“Let’s give a round of applause for our female tribute.” She says, her momentary confusion replaced once again with her usual cringe inducing pep. There’s an unenthusiastic round of applause, since no-one really knows how to feel about tributes who have not willingly chosen to partake in the games and as I look out amongst the crowd, I can’t help but be thankful for the length of my dress. 

It helps cover the fact my knees are shaking. 

All too quickly, a fourteen-year-old boy named Brian White is called up to the stage as District Fours male tribute. For a moment he looked terrified, and then Murray is taking his place. The excitement that had lifted his features this morning however is gone, replaced by an almost pitying look as he joins me on the stage. I want punch him, or at the very less hiss a whispered instruction to stop looking at me like I’m going to be dead soon. Such looks won’t fill potential sponsors with confidence. But then, what’s the point? Because the fact of the matter is, I’m all too likely going to be dead before the next few weeks are over.

Finally, Eilidh is instructing us to shake hands and we’re being led into the justice building by a handful of peacekeepers. I notice they keep a tighter hold of my arm than they do Murray’s. Apparently, I am deemed a flight risk. Maybe my shaking knees were noticeable after all. 

They lead me to an ostentatiously designed room, filled with marble and velvet and crystal trinkets that probably cost more than my entire house. Previous Hunger Games have taught be that the tributes get an hour for visitors but who is coming to visit me? My Father is on a boat somewhere in the middle of the ocean. He probably has no idea where I am right now, safe in the false knowledge that even if I had been reaped, a volunteer will be there to take my place. My best friend is in the other room, as undoubtably are his family and girlfriend. Who else would bother to come and see me? 

I have friends of course but judging by how quickly they stepped away from me the moment my name was called, I don’t know how likely it is that they will choose to come visit. Guilt will either force them to come say their final goodbyes, or keep them away. 

It turns out to be the latter, and for the first half an hour I am left alone. In that time I cry, pull myself together, then finally once the ornate looking mirror shows my eyes are no longer red and puffy I start to cry all over again. For my Father, who is going to return from his fishing trip only to find his only living daughter has been sent off to die in the capital. For my best friend, whose task of winning the games has undoubtedly become ten times harder now he’s been stuck with me. Mostly though, I cry for myself. Which is selfish, and quite possibly stupid. But I do it anyway. 

Eventually, the door opens, and I find myself hastily wiping my eyes as a grim-faced Mary Turner walks in. For a moment she sits in silence beside me, and then suddenly her arms are around me and I’m sobbing again. Surprisingly, it only takes a few minutes to tire myself out, and after that I simply rest my head on her shoulder. 

“Shouldn’t you be with Murray?” I ask in a muffled whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I can’t look her in the eye, and so instead I bury my face into her shoulder, undoubtably getting snot on her dress. If she notices, she pretends not to. I can’t help but be grateful.

“I thought you might need the company.” She replies simply, reaching up to stroke my hair as she speaks. 

She’s right. I do. 

“Thank you.” I manage to choke out and for a few minutes we sit in silence. Her hands gently stroking my hair, me trying to pull myself together. It’s a hard task, but by the time she leaves to say a final goodbye to her son I’m sure there will be no more tears. 

Mr Turner and Alicia do not visit. I can’t blame them for it. They will be wishing entirely for my death in the arena. Because ultimately, me surviving the games means Murray, the person they love most in the world, did not. 

A peacekeeper comes in to tell me my time is up. I can’t help but be thankful for the chance to escape the room. Even if my other option is a train straight to the Capital. Knowing what little impression I have made to the people of District Four is frankly depressing, combine it with the knowledge I will more than likely be dead soon, and the walls feel like they are choking me. 

I try once again to keep my expression neutral for the cameras at the train station, I even manage a small smile as they click away in their attempt to get the perfect images for tomorrow’s newspapers. Whilst I am no victor, I am also not looking to find a reason for sponsors to reject me before the games have even begun. Giving up entirely without a fight is not in my nature. I am a sailor. We are used to tough conditions. Now that the shock has finally started to ebb, all that’s left to do is accept the situation I have found myself in. I am a piece in a game I never wanted to be part of. 

And now I must play like everyone else. 

Stepping onto the train, I feel an arm wrap around my shoulder and the a few words mutter grimly in my ear. 

“You’re not meant to be here.” 

“Well, I’m here now.” I shrug off the arm quickly and take a few purposeful steps away from Murray. Because tears are threatening to spill again and the last thing I need is for our mentors to think I’ve already given up. Already, having found myself in the games through being reaped and not as a volunteer I am at a disadvantage. Tears will guarantee I’m labelled the dud tribute. 

Murray simply looks at me, the same pitying expression on his face as he wore on the stage. An unexpected anger flares up within me, and I briefly consider snapping a handful of cruel words at him before finally I sigh. Lashing out is not in my nature, even under these circumstances. And besides, he’s not the person who deserves my anger right now. In fact, I’m not sure who is. Before I can say anything however, the train doors open once again and our mentors board, Eilidh Gold and her pink hair follows behind them, teetering on her high heels. 

The last few years, Finnick Odair and an elderly woman named Mags have been the mentors to District Fours tributes. It always seemed odd to me, to put someone as young as Finnick in charge. Especially when we have other victors to choose from. But the capital loves him, and that in itself must be as logical a reason as any. Of course, he would get to come along to the games simply because he is a former victor. But being a mentor means more screen time, and a chance for the citizens of the Capital to see his face. And it is so pretty, you can’t really blame them for wanting to see it.

For a moment we all stand awkwardly, staring at each other as the train takes off. No-one’s entirely sure what to do. I suspect that has something to do with my presence. Eventually, Eilidh, takes pity on us and shows us to our rooms. As the door closes behind me I struggle with the zip of my dress, pulling it off and placing it carefully on one of the plush looking seats that decorates the room. Finally, I slip into the bed and hope that unconsciousness will sedate me momentarily against the situation I have found myself in.  
Despite the comfort, sleep doesn’t come. All too quickly there’s a knock on my door and I am being called to dinner. Reluctantly, I push myself up, then rummage through the drawers for something more comfortable to wear. My Mother’s dress is beautiful, but it wasn’t designed for comfort. 

Entering the dining cart, I see only Murray is there. “Where’s Mags and Finnick?” I question casually, though the hint of an apologetic smile has pulled onto my lips. Testing the waters to see how mad he is at my earlier outburst.

“No idea where Mags is, but Finnick was meant to come and get you.” 

So that’s who knocked on the door. For some reason, I had assumed it would be one of the Capital citizens who worked on the train. 

“Oh, he did.” I reply, pulling my chair out and reaching to grab a roll. Murray has already started eating. “But he didn’t exactly hang around long.” 

For a moment Murray simply stares at me, his expression torn between curiosity and sadness before finally he decides to speak. 

“You alright?” 

“Not really.” 

His lips threatened to pull downwards into a frown, and then out of nowhere, a soft chuckle escapes him. “That makes two of us.” 

And then suddenly, I am laughing. Because the whole thing is ridiculous. Because I am being sent to die at the hands of children whilst people watch for entertainment. 

Because I don’t quite know what else to do. 

I’m still laughing when Finnick and Mags enter the room, taking their seats opposite us. The former looks at me quizzically, perhaps wondering why the girl whose knees had been shaking in fear just a few short hours ago was now laughing. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he helps himself to some stew, and carefully dips a crusted roll before lifting his gaze to us again. “Murray, right? And Annie?” 

“Yes.” Murray agrees whilst I give a small nod. All desire to laugh somehow disappearing now I’m sitting opposite two people who have been through the games and lived to tell the tale. One at just fourteen years old. 

He’s somewhat of an oddity to me, Finnick Odair. On television he is the Capitals prized possession. Cocky and arrogant, yet at the same time utterly charming. But back in the district he keeps to himself. I would put it down to the fact that he now thinks himself above the rest of us, but he’s worked on my Dad’s fishing boat a few times over the years. Not because he needs to, but because he enjoys it. To hear my Dad describe him, he’s a nice young man who just likes to be part of the team. Now he just seems… I have no idea how he seems. All these different versions of Finnick Odair confuse me, and so I decide not to pass judgement until I have heard more than four words from him. 

I’ve barely touched my stew when Eilidh comes bursting in, moving at speed despite the heels she wears. It would be impressive, if I wasn’t worried about her falling and breaking her neck. Eilidh however, has no such worries. Her earlier confusion at the lack of girl volunteer has now been replaced by excitement. It is something new. Apparently, people in the Capital will be itching to see what I can do. And then she smiles at me so hopefully that I don’t have the heart to tell her the answer to that question is quite possibly very little. 

“Oh, you should see her with a knife.” Murray steps in, shovelling a spoonful of creamy looking mash potatoes into his mouth. “And she’s good with knots too.” 

Neither is particularly impressive. Everyone from District Four can tie knots in their sleep and since most of us work on boats, knives aren’t an uncommon tool either. Maybe it’s why we’re so readily accepted into the career pack each year. Because whilst we are no fans of the Capital, and certainly don’t receive their favour, our districts industry equips us for the arena like few others can. Those in District Seven can wield axes, and District Three’s tributes can set traps. But we are trained in a multitude of lethal weapons from a young age. Not because we want our children to be part of the games, but because it is simply part of life here. There. I have to remind myself I am no longer in District Four. 

“That’s a good start.” Mags nods, giving me a kind smile that is likely undeserved. But then, kindness seems to flow from the woman freely. I’ve seen her in the town square from time to time. She’s always giving the children sweets or paying far more than she should for her goods. The worse off a vendor looks, the more she gives them. I can only smile gratefully in return. 

“Do you two know each other then?” Eilidh asks conversationally. Perhaps perplexed by Murray’s answering the question for me. 

“Next door neighbour.” I say in return. 

“She’s like my sister.” Murray adds. “You’re the one who stops me doing stupid things, aren’t you Annie?” 

“I try, anyway.” 

I almost grin at him, but the look on both Mags and Finnick’s faces move me to silence. Because they know, just like twenty-three of the tributes who will go into the arena, our friendship will not survive it.

The rest of the meal is spent in silence.


	3. Chapter 3

We all sit around the television, ready to watch the recap of the days reapings. The thought of seeing myself projected on the screen isn’t pleasant, but it’s mandatory viewing. And I suppose I should at least get an idea of who our competitors are before we see them for the first time at the opening ceremony. 

Both Finnick and Murray are sat in armchairs. Whilst the former has his attention fixed on the window rather than the television as that years commentators try to build up the anticipation, Murray is practically twitching with excitement at the prospect of seeing who will be joining us in the arena. I suspect that for him, the games are officially starting. 

I am sat between Mags and Eilidh. Somehow, I feel like Mags has chosen this position specifically. Knowing there’s only one person in the room who will likely need their hand held to get through the next few hours. 

Then it starts, and one by one we find out who our fellow tributes are. The boy from District One is tall and lean, and those around him look at him with such jealously in their eyes that you have to assume he’s deadly. The girl walks up to the stage with an air of enough superiority, that I’m intimidated by just the televisions interpretation of her. The girl from Two looks like she could bench press both me and Mags without breaking a sweat, though the boy, surprisingly, doesn’t look particularly impressive. 

Size doesn’t mean everything, I suppose, but it certainly gives you an advantage.

I try not to cringe through the entire showing of District Fours reaping. On screen I just about manage to keep it together in a somewhat convincing manner, but it is clear both from my expression and the reaction of the crowd that I am not meant to be there. Murray’s pitying look is also not missed by the camera. 

The rest of the districts fly by with frightening pace. Briefly I wonder if I am meant to be writing any of this information down, but no-one has suggested I need to. A few stand out. The girl from seven clears six feet and her arms are so impressively muscled that I almost miss the reaping of the boy tribute in favour of staring at them. There are two twelve-year olds. One from five, the other from ten. The latter could easily be mistaken for someone no older than eight. The image of her trembling form as she stands upon the stage causes a choking sound to escape from my lips. This earns me looks from Eilidh, Murray and Finnick. Mags however, takes hold of my hand and grips it tightly in hers. I am sure I’m squeezing all feeling out of her fingers, but she doesn’t complain.

By the time it’s over, I am exhausted. Murray is ready to start asking questions. I can see the excitement that takes over his expression as his body shifts to face Finnick. Despite the meagre age gap of just over a year, Finnick Odair is something of a personal hero to Murray. I have been forced to partake in more conversations about tridents and the 65th Annual Hunger Games than I have ever wanted to. I know whatever Murray is going to ask, I should be there to hear the answer. But before he gets a chance Eilidh is suggesting it’s time to go to bed, reasoning a good nights sleep will do everyone some good. 

I don’t object since my entire body feels just about ready to give up on me. Instead, I push myself to a standing position and feel a familiar pat on my back. “Go to bed Annie Bee.” It’s an old nickname. One that’s almost exclusively used by my Father. It’s childish perhaps, but I’ve always liked it. It reminds me of home. I’ve only ever heard the name come out of Murray’s mouth in a teasing fashion, though I know now it is meant for comfort.

My big, lovable best friend, who has willingly offered himself up to the games. 

Stupid boy. 

“Goodnight.” My gaze sweeps across Mags, Finnick and Eilidh before I follow Murray towards the compartment which hosts our rooms. He waits until we’re alone to speak. 

“It’ll be alright, Ann.” 

It won’t. But I nod along in agreement anyway. 

“You’ve got stuck with quite the ally downgrade.” 

He scoffs at the words, a grin pulling onto his lips. “You kidding?” He questions, shaking his head at me. “Think of all the fishing we’ve done together over the years. Think how many times you’ve helped me train. We’re going to be the team to beat.” 

Somehow, he conveniently leaves out the fact we were spearing fish and not people. Maybe he thinks it will be no different. The nausea that fills my stomach at the thought suggests otherwise. 

“Yeah, you might have a point.” I say the words even though I don’t believe them, out of kindness. Because I don’t want my best friend going to bed with the thought that he will somehow die in the arena trying to protect his useless district partner. “Goodnight Mur.” 

“Night.” 

Shutting the door behind me, I pull off the clothes and let them fall to the floor, far less careful than I had been with my Mother’s dress. I find a nightgown and tug it on before finally crawling into bed. Hoping the darkness will take me quickly. 

It doesn’t. Instead. I spend at least an hour tossing and turning underneath the sheets, trying to find a position that will somehow coax sleep. I have never had any trouble sleeping. And yet it continues to elude me today. 

Eventually, I give up. 

Kicking the covers away, I move to slip my feet into slippers before remembering where I am. There are no slippers waiting for me at the side of the bed here. Maybe they are somewhere else in the room, but where I don’t know. Instead of bothering to look, I walk barefoot to the dining cart, hoping some sort of hot drink will help.

When I get there however, I realise I am not alone. 

Finnick is sitting with his back to me, hunched over the table with a glass in his hand. For a moment I wonder if it’s vodka, or gin, or one of the other spirits I can occasionally smell off the sailors that work with my Father. 

Though as he raises it to his lips, I can see it’s only milk. 

For a moment I consider turning around and making my way back to my room. The dining cart is for all to use, and there are no curfews surrounding it, but somehow it feels wrong to be here. Besides, everything about Finnick is intimidating. From his stature, to his looks, to the fact I have no idea what his true personality is. 

I have just about decided to make my leave when he speaks. 

“So, are you coming in, or do you just like lingering in doorways?” He turns, and I can feel my cheeks warm involuntarily at being caught. 

“Sorry.” I whisper, momentarily mortified before slowly making my way into the cart. Leaving now, would only further the humiliation. 

“Don’t worry, you’re not the first tribute who’s struggled to fall asleep.” He notes casually, as I carefully take a glass and begin to fill it with milk. A warm drink would have been better, but suddenly I don’t like the idea of hanging around too long in the dining cart. “Besides, at least I’m a pretty view.” 

The change in tone is instant, even the way he holds himself alters under the weight of the new words. His shoulders are held instantly higher, his expression pulls into something that is both beautiful and yet lacking in any sort of genuine emotion. 

A few seconds pass and I stand mute in response, confusion robbing me of any sort of functionality. I’m starting to wonder if Finnick Odair has a split personality. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to read him? Eventually, enough sense returns to me and I blurt out an answer. 

“Well, if I’m going to the capital I may as well enjoy the view.” 

The words are laced with an edge of sarcasm, and for a moment I can’t help but wonder if I’ve made a mistake. But he let’s out a small chuckle and his shoulder’s slump back into their original position. Even my own lips form the ghost of a smile. Though I think that’s simply out of relief. 

“You’ve had a rough day of it.” 

“You could say that.” 

“You teach the sailor’s children how to swim on Sundays, right?” 

“I do.”

The fact he knows this takes me by surprise. It’s never been an official thing, after all. And I’m certainly not paid to do it. Sunday’s is our one day off in District Four. Parents are exhausted from their week of work, and their young children far too excited about the prospect of a day filled with endless possibilities and no school. And so, in order to give the sailor’s some rest, I take their children to the beach. 

It had started out with just Isla and Niall Donoghue. They lived just a few doors down from us, and had saw me swimming one day. They couldn’t have been more than six. Slowly, more and more children joined our little group. We would paddle about in the sea. Or I would teach them the proper strokes, and how to do fancy turns underwater. We collected seashells and generally filled our time until one by one their parents would finally wake from their well-deserved slumber and come to collect them. 

Suddenly, the thought of never having another Sunday by the water threatens to consume me and perhaps Finnick senses this, because he’s quick to change the subject. 

“Are you as good with a knife as he says you are?” 

By he, I have to assume he means Murray. I shrug noncommittally in response. I am decent with a knife. At least when it comes to stationary targets and gutting fish. But my skills likely aren’t going to stand up against tributes who have been training with them for the purpose of killing other human beings for years now. Somehow, gutting a fish just doesn’t seem particularly impressive by comparison. 

“Anything else?” 

“I’m pretty accurate with a spear.” I say. The problem is, it has to be from close range. Whilst years of sailing and swimming, as well as being from a wealthier part of town has meant I am decently strong, and more than capable of hitting a moving target. I am still far too small to manage to throw the thing any real distance. 

For a moment he seems to consider the words. Maybe he’s trying to decide if I’m worth taking a chance on, or if it would be better to just accept he only has one tribute with any chance of actually winning the games this year. His gaze is curious, searching even and I try not to shrink back under the weight of it. 

Eventually he drains his glass and suggests I go and get some sleep. 

I take it as the dismissal it is. 

“Annie.” I’m nearly at the door when the sound of my name pulls my attention back to him. He gives me a solemn smile, before shaking his head. “Nothing. Goodnight.” Maybe he had hoped to give me some words of encouragement, but then realised he had none. I only nod in response, before making my way back to my room.


	4. Chapter 4

The journey to the Capital takes just over a day. 

Most of the time is spent discussing basic strategy. Murray leans so close to Finnick throughout these conversations, it’s almost comical. As if he is convinced being near such a renowned victor will somehow make him renowned as well. Like Finnick’s skill can be passed over to him through osmosis. 

Despite the hours we have, there is only enough time to cover the most basic of information and instructions. We will be gracious to our stylist and prep teams. They are the people who will be responsible for our first impressions in the Capital and to be on their bad side is a mistake. We will smile and wave at the crowds. Earn their adoration. And finally, we will make a point of talking to the other tributes from District One and Two as quickly as possible. 

“The six of you will make up the main alliance in the games.” Finnick explains, though he doesn’t really need to. It’s the same almost every year. Unless of course, a tribute does something to either exclude themselves from the group or is seen as so weak that no-one wants them as an ally. I have never seen the latter happen, though perhaps I will be the first. “Depending on how training goes, others might join the group. But more than likely it will end up being just the six of you. So keep an eye on them, try and see where they can help you out in the arena whilst also working out their weaknesses.” 

Because of course, alliances can only last so long.

One year, when I was very young the main alliance between the volunteer tributes lasted less than a day. Without a clear leader in the group to guide them, they were arguing over strategy the moment the bloodbath at the cornucopia was finished. In the end, after the gruesome murder of one of the tributes at the hand of their own district partner, they had split up. Knowing they would never be able to trust one another. A girl from District Ten had won that year. And from then on, volunteers have almost always stuck together until most of the other competitors are dead, knowing the alliance works in everyone’s favour.

I nod along, pretending I am entirely confident in this plan until Murray voices the question that I am too afraid to ask. 

“Will they even let Annie be part of the group?” He says, his tone concerned in a way I should potentially be offended by. Perhaps I would be, except I am wondering the exact same thing and am simply relieved I don’t have to be the one to bring it up. 

It is Mag’s who answers this time, though her words are addressed towards me rather than Murray.

“The other tributes might keep a closer eye on you, see what you can do.” She explains. “But for now, I doubt they’re going to depart from tradition.” Her eyes twinkle at me. “You’ll be fine.” 

Knowing there is a high chance I will soon be part of a pack of killer teenagers, making our way around an arena brutally murdering everyone we find is both sickening and oddly relief inducing. Because, when the alternative is going off on my own and praying I don’t succumb to either another tribute or exposure, I know it is the preferable option in terms of my staying alive. 

It is terrifying how quickly I have accepted my role as an accomplice to murder. 

“Act like you’re meant to be there, and people will soon forget you didn’t volunteer.” Finnick adds. 

Seeing my momentarily perplexed expression, he continues. “The games don’t start when you enter the arena. From the moment you step foot in the Capital, you’re already playing. Both of you.” His gaze flickers briefly to Murray to make sure he’s paying attention, though of course he’s already hanging on the victor’s every word, before coming back to me. “They want a show. If you carry yourself like someone who’s excited to be there, and ready to play the game. People will be all too willing to believe that’s exactly who you are. Do you see?” 

In some regards, I do. After all, didn’t I try to hold myself together during the reaping, knowing that to do otherwise would only harm my chances when I got into the arena. I simply have to carry on my charade in the Capital. Right? Except, there’s a difference, between trying to convince the audience that I am not terrified by the very prospect of being part in the Hunger Games, and acting like a ruthless killer who is excited to be there. 

“The people in Four will know I’m lying.” Even those who I am only vaguely acquainted with know I am no killer. I’m usually pretty gentle by nature, if perhaps a little hot headed when caught at the wrong moment. But certainly not somebody who would ever go out of their way to purposefully harm another human being.

“It doesn’t matter who you are in District Four.” The words are simple, but there’s a tiredness to his tone which seems to linger in each syllable. Does he think I’m not picking it up quickly enough? “Because the people of District Four aren’t the ones who are going to keep you alive. Nobody in the Capital cares about who tributes are back in their districts, it’s about who they want you to be in the games. Get it? Find out who the Capital want you to be, and give them it.” 

“Is that what you did?” 

“It’s what I do.”

And suddenly I know why I have never been able to get a read on Finnick Odair. Why his personality changes like the wind depending on the time and situation he finds himself. In the Capital, he is who its citizens want him to be. With his legions of adoring fans and string of fancy lovers. But why? His games were over five years ago. He’s no longer fighting to survive the arena. 

Is it for the gifts that are bestowed upon him by the ever-changing string of bodies who share his bed? Maybe. But then, after spending a few hours in his company Finnick doesn’t seem like the ostentatious type. 

Perhaps he has a secret room for his jewels back in the Victors Village. 

\---- 

The four of us along with Eilidh, who has finally decided to grace the rest of the group with her presence, are helping ourselves to lunch when Murray first catches sight of the Capital. His roll falls with a splash into his bowl of soup and I turn hastily in my chair to try and locate whatever has captured his attention. 

The vibrant coloured buildings look like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Any hint of colour on our buildings back in District Four has been eroded over time by sea salt and harsh winds, giving everything a slightly dull feel the moment the bright sun slips behind the clouds. Even the buildings slightly further inland are worn and decrepit, since they belong to the poorest members of our district. 

This is something else entirely. 

We are both up and at the window within seconds, taking in the sight. Murray lets out a low whistle and I respond with my own unintelligible sound of agreement. I can’t help but be momentarily delighted by it all, trying to take in as much as I can before the first glimpse of a face that looks so different from my own appears. Spotting the train, they tug on the sleeve of their young child, encouraging them to look at the new round of victors who have been brought into the Capital to die. 

And then I remember we aren’t entering a strangely coloured paradise, but a beautifully decorated lion’s den. 

“Remember, you want to be here.” Perhaps Finnick has spotted my momentary flinch, because I am about to get as far away from the window as I can when his words force me to hold my ground. More faces start to appear as we make our way further into the city, excitedly trying to catch a glimpse of the new tributes, though we are surely going too quickly for them to see anything more than a few blurred features.

Murray however is already waving, clearly taking our mentor’s words about winning over the Capital’s citizens to heart. Reluctantly, I join in. At first, it is an effort to move my limbs with any sort of sincerity, though it becomes fractionally easier when I see my movements are met with enthusiastic responses from the crowd. 

As the train slows down, I suspect they are now able to get a better look at our faces. After a few minutes, it’s easy enough to pretend I am enjoying the experience. And though my smile is plastered on and entirely fake, I’m hoping we have earned ourselves some fans in the process. That at least a few people who have come out to see us will empty their pockets in the name of sponsoring District Four’s tributes, who waved so graciously at them in the crowd. 

The false smile only drops from my features when the train finally winds itself into the station, removing us from prying eyes and the scorns of Capital citizen’s it is now my job to impress.


	5. Chapter 5

My body is raw. 

On a sterile bed in the remake centre, I have spent the last two hours being prodded and plucked, stripped of hair and what I can only assume is at least a dozen layers of skin in the process. Whilst I do my best not to complain, every so often an involuntary hiss of pain escapes my lips and I can see the disapproval of my prep team at the noise.

“We’re doing this to help you, dear.” Astrid, a young woman with short cropped hair and skin that is dyed a pale shade of gold, clicks at me. Clearly already impatient. 

“I know.” I reply, my voice struggling to stay pleasant. A task that turns out to increase tenfold in difficulty whilst every hair on your body is being ripped from its follicle. “I’m sorry.” Though in reality, I have no idea what leaving me hairless will do to increase my prospects of winning the Hunger Games. 

Still, my mentors have instructed me not to question the process. And I don’t want to appear rude. So, I hold my tongue, and try my best to force a smile onto my lips. “I’ll try to keep quiet.” 

“Come on Astrid.” Primus counters, plucking away at my brows with some metal tweezers. I don’t like the fact the contraption is so near to my eyes, but since he has yet to accidentally blind me, I suppose I have to trust him with the process. As I watch him, I am sure the silver stars that are tattooed across his body move occasionally. Though, the pain is making me more than a little dizzy at this point. Perhaps his stars are stationary and it is the world that is spinning. 

“The girl we had last year was practically feral. Remember we had to have her strapped down?” He’s chuckling, as if the memory of pinning down a terrified and manic girl desperate for freedom is somehow hilarious to him. A fun anecdote he can relive at parties. “You’re doing just fine dear.” And then, he pats my shoulder in what I think is meant to be a reassuring way. 

It’s all I can do not to recoil.

My prep team has only recently been promoted to District Four. Last year, they had been in charge of making over the District Nine tributes. Apparently, this is quite the step up for them. 

“I just thought in the wealthier districts they would be a little more accustomed to a regular beauty routine.” Astrid notes, a frown contorting her golden features as she rips another piece of fabric from my body. I clutch hard against the sides of the table in an effort not to let out a curse of frustration. 

The process goes on for at least another hour. I am remade again and again until my body is finally deemed acceptable by the duo. In the end, they seem pleased with their work. 

Full of self praises, Astrid and Primus leave to collect my stylist, Magnolia. 

The moment they leave the room, I reach for my previously discarded robe and shrug it back on. As if the light cotton fabric will somehow offer me any sort of protection from the floral woman I have only ever saw on TV. 

Magnolia has been a stylist in the games for several years now. I have never known her name until this morning, but she has always stood out to me amongst the stylists. It’s hard to miss a woman who has tattooed her entire body to look like a bouquet of flowers, even in the capital. 

As the door swings open, I offer a smile towards the floral woman. Admittedly curious to see what she is like in person. I am met with only a curt nod in response before she immediately sets to work. Pleasantries it seems are out of the question for the moment. 

“Off.” Magnolia instructs, hand outstretched as she waits for me to disrobe for the second time that day. Reluctantly, I peel the fabric off my still tingling skin and pass over my last piece of modesty to the stylist. She tosses it carelessly on the ground in a way that suggests I won’t be needing it again. 

Wonderful. 

Magnolia cannot be described as a warm person. She barely speaks, except to point out a few of my aesthetic flaws. But in a way this is preferable. I would rather stand in silence whilst this strange woman circles my body and murmurs to herself about colour pallets than attempt to make casual conversation. I doubt a natural report would come easily between us, since we likely have as much in common as a starfish and a tiger. 

It is far easier to keep my eyes trained forward. Moving my limbs fractionally when instructed to do so and waiting for the stylist to make her final decisions. Never saying a word. 

Eventually, once Magnolia has finished making whatever changes to my hair, make-up and skin she has deemed necessary, she calls in Astrid once again. This time, the pale gold woman brings with her a garment bag that will undoubtedly hold my costume for that evenings tribute parade. 

Tribute’s costumes vary from year to year. Depending on the stylist, the district, and whatever muse has somehow influenced fashion in the Capital that year, you have the chance to be anything from mesmerising or downright vulgar. 

Usually, thanks to our districts industry of fishing, we are at the very least generally guaranteed woven nets to cover our bodies. Other districts aren’t so lucky. From a handful of strategically placed leaves, to coal dust. Stylists have never had any problem exposing their victors to all of Panem. 

As she unzips the bag, I send a silent prayer out to the world that Magnolia will not dress me in a net. 

And she doesn’t. 

Instead, I am in a fitted silver dress which shines in a way that is all too clearly meant to resemble fish scales. These same silver scales have also been painted at various points on my arms and face. At one point, Magnolia, Astrid and Primus have a serious discussion about covering every piece of exposed skin in the same way, masking my features as if to give the illusion of a real fish, before eventually deciding the process will take too much time. 

I can’t help but be thankful. 

The dress is a strange material I have never encountered before. It’s shiny, almost plastic in appearance though with slightly more fluidity. I can see why they have picked it. When the light hits certain angles, silver ripples seem to course through the fabric. It really could belong to an underwater creature. 

True, moving around is difficult. But since the parade involved little more than standing on top a chariot and waving at the crowds, this issue shouldn’t pose too many problems. 

All in all, I don’t think I could have asked for more. For the most part I am covered, even if my dress is restrictive and makes breathing difficult. My make-up is harsh, but whilst it took a moment to adjust to the silver lips, I find I actually quite like how it contorts my features. I look otherworldly, with dark eyes and carved out cheekbones. Streaks of silver even decorate my hair. I don’t remember Primus doing this, though perhaps I was more interested in the hair that was leaving my body in that moment than what was going on with the strands that remained on top of my head. 

Turning to my prep team, I find I am thanking them with true sincerity. Whilst far worse experiences are awaiting me over the course of the next few weeks, it is still a relief to know I will not be forced to grace the Capital streets in the most garish and exposing of outfits. 

It would have been so easy for them, to put me in a net and be done with it.

Murray actually is in a net. Though it has been done in a way that at least covers him more than other tributes have been in the past. It’s tightly woven, gold and is arranged like a toga. Spackles of gold body paint also act as an additional layer. I can’t help but wonder if the two stylists have planned this out between them, or if body paint is simply the fashion trend of this year’s tribute parade. 

“Am I meant to have caught you?” Murray asks, amused as I struggle to make my way over to the chariot. My dress seems to be protesting every miniscule step. 

Mag’s has held my hand for most of the journey, in an attempt to stop me from toppling over in the silver heels that adorn my feet, but I am worried leaning too heavily against the elderly woman will only result in us both on the ground.

“Quite possibly.” I reply, momentarily relieved when I can let go of my delicate grasp on Mag’s hand and slump heavily against the chariot. What I really want to do is take my shoes off, or perhaps even more tempting, sit down. Neither however is possible thanks to the restrictive material of the dress and for a moment I can’t help but glance longingly at the sandy haired boy from Seven who sits so casually on the floor. “Though I suppose, that’s not a hard task right now.” 

“So I saw.” Murray snorts. “It took you about ten minutes to cross the room.” Even Finnick beside him lets out a chuckle at the comment. Our mentor is already in full Capital mode, ready to play whatever game he seems to think he is part of now his own time in the Hunger Games is done. His expression contorted in a way that looks entirely relaxed in his current environment. Like he owns the room. 

Given the stares he receives from the handful of Capital escorts and even a few tributes, perhaps he does. 

“Why didn’t your stylist change the shoes when she saw you couldn’t walk in them?” Murray continues.

“It’s not the heels, it’s the dress.” I protest, clawing at the material in an attempt to prove my point. It is so fitted however, that my fingers catch only air.

In truth, whilst the dress is restrictive it is also partly the heels. I’m not used to the uneven distribution of weight, or the feeling that my ankle may give way at any moment. In my entire life, I have only owned one pair of shoes that vaguely resembled the pair I wear now. A studier, far more forgiving pair lined with white satin. 

Like most of my beautiful things, the shoes once belonged to my mother. I have never worn them outside the house, terrified sand or dirt would destroy them. But every so often, I will give in to temptation and try them on.

Sometimes, when I am feeling particularly giddy and am sure no-one can see me through the window. I will turn on the worn second-hand record player my Dad paid far too much money for, and twirl around the house in my mother’s shoes and lace dress. Like a child who has just discovered music for the first time. 

The heels I wear now are something else entirely. 

“Hey, at least you can move your arms.” Murray notes with a grin, pulling me out of my thoughts and nodding his head towards the District One chariot, where two bejewelled tributes are stood with their mentors. “Onyx said that Satine had to get half the gems on her arm glued back on because she reached up to scratch her nose. Their stylist didn’t think that one through, waving to the crowds is going to be a nightmare.” 

His words take me by surprise. Not because of the pair’s outfits, or their lack of waving opportunities, but rather because he has already made contact with at least one of the other career tributes. 

“Wait, when did you get time to talk to him? The moment my stylists were finished with me, I was brought here. Surely he couldn’t have arrived too far in advance? 

“About twenty minutes ago. We’ve been here for nearly an hour now.” 

“How does that work? I just got finished?” 

“Well,” he notes, doing what I can only assume is his best impression of one of Finnick’s charming smirks, though it is a poor interpretation. One which comes off as goofy rather than seductive. “Look at me, what did they need to make over?” 

I bat his arm.

“I expect they spent most of the time getting rid of those few hairs you called a beard.” 

Instinctively, he raises a hand up to stroke his now bare chin. “Yeah, that one hurt.” He admits, though he is still grinning. “But after that, they pretty much told me I was beautiful, and sent me down here to make some new friends. Don’t worry,” he notes, nudging me with his elbow. “I talked you up.” 

There isn’t any time to respond, because a voice is instructing the tributes to make their final preparations. The procession will begin in exactly two minutes time. 

Suddenly I am hit with an onslaught of nerves. 

“Remember, smile and wave.” Mag’s notes, as she takes a step back from the chariot. Murray hops on with ease but just as I move to join him, I realise the task is impossible. The chariot is too high and my dress simply won’t allow the movement. 

Magnolia it seems, hasn’t thought this part of the evening through. 

For a moment I panic, wondering if there is a way for me to jump on board without breaking both my ankles in the process. I suppose if I hold the railing with one hand, and Murrays hand with the other I’ll likely be able to control my landing. 

Sixty seconds. 

I grip the mental with one hand, ready to ask Murray for some help, when suddenly two hands are on my waist. Lifting me with ease onto the chariot. 

“Up you go.” Finnick’s voice fills my ears, his grip holding me steady.

“Thank you.” I can’t help but feel a little ridiculous, requiring Finnick for such a simple task. It is one thing to ask Murray, the boy I once watched break down in tears when the sea destroyed a sandcastle he had made, for assistance. It has been a long time since I have ever felt the need to be embarrassed around him. Finnick’s help feels different somehow. 

Underneath my layers of make-up, I am sure my face is scarlet. 

“Try not to fall off.” He winks, and I have just enough time to turn around and adjust my stance to something a little sturdier, before the horses start to move. And we are off. 

Despite witnessing years’ worth of tribute parades, being part of one is something else entirely. 

The crowds, the cheers, the ostentatious decorations. It is all surreal. I feel like I am in a strange sort of fever dream. One where colours appear too bright and almost nothing makes sense. 

I smile at the crowd. Wave. Catch their kisses as if they are a gift as precious as life itself. 

The ceremony passes in a blur. President Snow gives a speech, but I find myself only half paying attention to his words. I am too distracted by the City Circle and all its grandeur. Besides, it’s always the same thing every year. The dark days, the districts retribution. How we will all fight valiantly to win and bring honour to our district. 

Yes, we are all fighting for honour. Not because second prize is death. 

And then, our horses are moving once again, and we are being led back through the city. The crowds continue to scream with just as much fervour as they had upon first seeing us. In fact, they are perhaps louder now that they have had the time to look up our names in the programme. 

The horses have barely drawn to a halt when we are surrounded by our team.

“The silver was genius.” Magnolia, who has now joined us along with Murray’s stylist, is the happiest I have seen her all day. “A real stroke of magic on my part. It really gave you a little extra something.” 

Eilidh is agreeing enthusiastically. Though she adds that we held ourselves with poise throughout the ceremony. 

“Thanks Eilidh.” A small, grateful smile pulls on my lips. 

It is only now that we are done I realise just how rapidly my heart is thundering in my chest. 

“First part’s out of the way.” Mag’s says, taking each of our hands in her own before I am helped down off the chariot. 

I am about to ask if someone can help pull my shoes off, more than happy to make the journey up to our living area in bare feet when a voice calls across the room, catching my attention. 

“Nice outfit, Four.” 

It’s the boy from one. Onyx. I am almost sure that’s what Murray had called him earlier. 

I can see by the direction of his gaze that he is talking to me. And from the way his features are contorted, I am sure the words are not intended solely for the purpose of complimenting his competitor. He wants to see how I will react. The girl from a career district who didn’t volunteer. 

Am I worthy of his alliance? 

Murray is already forming a response on his lips, but I cut him off with my own words.

“Well, one of had to make the effort. Right?” 

Whilst I know Murray is only trying to help. Having him jump in and protect me will only confirm what the boy surely already suspects about my not belonging here. Of course, he’s right. I most definitely don’t belong here. But Finnick was also right on the train. This whole thing is a game, and we all need to play our parts if we have any real hope of surviving it 

Annie Cresta, the quiet girl from District Four. The girl who teaches children how to swim on Sundays. She will never win the Hunger Games. But Annie Cresta, career tribute… well she still probably won’t win. But at least my chances are improved, even if only slightly. 

Onyx gives what I think might be an approving nod, before following the rest of his team to the elevators. 

“Come along.” Eilidh chirps, starting to herd us off in the same direction. “We’re all going to need to be well rested for tomorrow.” 

Nobody objects to Eilidh’s demands. 

Holding onto Murray’s arm for support, since I have forgotten to ask someone to take off my heels, we begin to follow the District One team towards the elevators. 

All except one of us. 

Finnick is still lingering by the chariot. I hadn’t noticed before, but he must have changed his clothes during the ceremony. His previous outfit has been replaced by a fancy suit. Bronze, almost the exact colour of his hair. 

It’s a striking look, except I have no idea why he is wearing it. 

“Aren’t you coming?” I ask, confusion filling my words as I pull Murray to a stop. 

Finnick shakes his head, a seductive smile pulling at his lips. When he speaks, it sounds like velvet. 

“I have somewhere else to be.” 

Of course. 

Finnick Odair is not known to live a quiet life in the Capital. It only makes sense that when his tributes have gone to bed for the evening, the real fun begins for him. 

I wonder if he counts down the minutes until he gets to leave us. 

“Oh. Well, have fun?” The word comes out like a question rather than a statement, and I’m not entirely sure why. Except perhaps that I am uncomfortable with the idea of someone from District Four spending so much time with these Capital people. 

He knows our conditions. He knows how many people die at sea because of a lack of safety precautions and a demand to be always kept in supply of seafood. He knows how rigidly our peacekeepers enforce our rules. 

And we are one of the better off districts. I can only imagine what the people endure in Ten, Eleven, Twelve. 

Why would he ever want to surround himself with such people? No amount of money or fancy jewels could be worth it.

“I intend to.” 

His response makes my brows knit together, a feeling of disgust rising up within me. But then Eilidh is calling on us to hurry up, and we turn away from Finnick without another word. Leaving him to enjoy the Capital.


	6. Chapter 6

Officially, training is meant to start at ten. But it’s barely past nine when Eilidh is escorting us down to the training centre’s lower floors. The place where we will spend the next two days attempting to learn how to survive the Hunger Games. 

“You ready?” Murray questions, bouncing on his heels lightly in anticipation as the glass elevator leads us down well below ground level. 

“Oh yeah, can’t wait.” I return, lips pulling up in a questionable attempt to smile at him. He returns the look with his own grin, though no amount of bravado can entirely mask the nerves that lay under the surface.

Whilst Murray has been in his element for almost the entirety of his time in the Capital so far, this is the first time I have noticed a trace of apprehension in my best friend. Though I’m almost sure this has nothing to do with the training itself, and far more to do with the instructions our mentors had given us for the day. 

The previous evening, and most of the morning had been spent with Finnick and Mags explaining the finer details of how alliances worked, and how best to use them to our advantage. Whilst the fact the tributes from District One, Two and Four will group together is usually an unspoken given, the form which that alliance takes changes year to year. 

Training is where it all begins. 

There is almost always a natural leader. The person who will make the bulk of the decisions in order to stop arguments from causing us to, quite literally, rip each other’s throats out. The rest of the pack will fall in line, do what the leader says, all whilst quietly trying to work out how they will kill them off when the time is right. 

Usually, the strongest of the tributes takes on the role. I suppose physical dominance is more than enough to make most people fall in line. I doubt I would want to argue with someone I knew could quite easily crush my skull with their bare hands. But it doesn’t always work out like that. Sometimes, natural charisma or an attitude that suggests this person is not one to be crossed wins out. According to Mags natural leaders aren’t made of muscle, but instead have a certain unspoken flare that sets them apart from the rest of the group. Meaning, sometimes smaller tributes can find themselves in charge.

Not that any career tribute is ever really small. Even I will likely be larger than at least half of the reaped tributes from the other districts. Thanks to years of consistent food and working on boats. 

We aren’t allowed to know much about the other districts, except their main industry and the brief clips of their town centres we see during reapings and victory tours. But judging by the emancipated state that so many of the children arrive in. It’s easy to guess that for a good number of the people in these places, food is hard to come by. 

Of course, we have our own starving in Four. Those who were injured at sea and have struggled to find work since. Those who work in the processing plants where they pay little more than a handful of coins for backbreaking work packing up our goods to be sent to the Capital. 

But our starving is miniscule in comparison to what I am sure goes on in some of the other districts.

Starving tributes, however, are not the focus of todays training. At least, they aren’t meant to be. 

Instead, it is all about our little pack of career tributes and the roles we will play in the group. Will Murray make a play for leader? I suspect this is what’s causing the nerves that haven’t let him stand still for the entirely of our elevator journey. I know he wants the role. I suppose most volunteer tributes would. After all, what better way to convince the Capital you’re the one to beat? But there are going to be others who also see themselves as the natural leader of any alliance that forms between the volunteer districts. 

Judging by what we saw in the parade last night the boy from One is a potential option. And then there is the girl from Two. Whilst no-one has spoken to her directly, I can’t help but remember how she walked onto the platform after she had volunteered. Strength wise, I expect she would put up a good fight amongst any of the male tributes. And then there was a look in her eyes that seemed to suggest she was not a person who enjoys taking orders.

The idea that I could potentially lead the pack wasn’t even discussed at breakfast. I can’t say I blame either Mags or Finnick for ignoring it as a potential option. In fact, I would have openly laughed if anyone had tried to suggest it.

Instead, I am to stay on the side-lines. Make myself an asset but remain largely unnoticed amongst the group so that the other careers will spend less time working out how to kill me in favour of those in the alliance they deem more of a threat. 

All the while, I am meant to be silently plotting how to be the last one standing. 

It was only as I had nodded in agreement to this suggestion, whilst cramming more eggs into my mouth, that I had realised the absurdity of it all. That apparently, in the Capital, plotting the murder of other children is deemed a perfectly normal piece of breakfast conversation. One which I willingly found myself involved in. The rest of the conversation was mostly tuned out, my attention drifting away in favour of wondering how on earth I had gotten to this point.

Even now in the elevator, it is like I am not really here. That these strange events aren’t happening to me, but instead somebody else, who just happens to be in my body. And I am watching overhead, powerless to stop it. 

Maybe this is a good thing. If I sat down to truly consider the crucible that we are about to be thrown into, I have a distinct feeling I would not be coping half as well as I am currently. No, it is probably far better to be numb, than to feel like every nerve ending is on fire and have no way of stopping it. 

Despite the fact we are here forty minutes early, we are still not the first to arrive in the room dedicated to training. Already the girl from Two is eyeing up a display full of swords she is not yet allowed to touch, whilst the boy sits bored on the floor, leaning back on his elbows.

Our arrival causes their attention to shift to the pair of us, and for a moment everyone is silent. I can almost see the cogs twisting in each of their minds. Do they speak first? Should they make a conscious attempt to make friends or do they act superior and not acknowledge their fellow tributes with a verbal greeting? 

Which action will best put this predetermined alliance in their favour?

The silence goes on a few seconds too long and I am almost tempted to blurt out a greeting, just so somebody has said something. But my mouth is dry and I’m almost sure any attempt to speak right now would only come out as unintelligible garble. 

“What’s the chances someone manages to accidentally off themselves with one of these things before lunch?” 

The voice is casual, joking. And yet so unlike Murray’s that I have to whip my head around in order to make sure it actually is him speaking.

The girl laughs, whilst the boys lips curl up into a cruel smile of appreciation and it is the first time I feel real fear over him. I have barely noticed him before now. He’s not large. Not physically intimidating like his female counterpart. But with one smile I have no doubt this boy would not think twice about slitting our throats whilst we all slept. 

I make a mental note to stay awake during each of his guards. 

The tributes from One soon join us, and suddenly our alliance is complete. The twenty minutes we are alone together pass in a blur of peacocking and awkward attempts to show we are no more afraid of each other than we are of the other tributes. 

As expected, Murray, Onyx and the girl from Two who calls herself Honour lead the majority of the conversation. The boy from Two, Antony, maintains his bored exterior throughout whilst Satine from One is witty, but for the most part lets the other’s take control. 

I spend most of the conversation forcing laughter at comments that would usually provoke looks of horror, and trying my best not to stand out for the wrong reasons. 

Slowly, the rest of the tributes join us until finally we make a complete twenty-four. Whatever conversation had existed previously has now died out as we size each other up. The little girl from Ten is clutching onto her escorts hand for dear life, looking terrified and instinct pulls me towards her. Murray seems to know what I’m going to do before I do, and his arm is wrapping itself around my shoulder, holding me in place. Acting as a silent reminder that I cannot help her. 

And yet, my eyes can’t stop flickering to the youngest tribute sporadically, as well the boy from Five whilst Atala, the woman in charge of our training, talks us through how the next two days will go. They’re both so small, I can’t help but wonder how they ended up here without anyone to take their place. 

As soon as we are released, the tributes from One, Two and Murray immediately head to the weapons. I risk one last glance towards the young girl, who looks lost before I follow diligently behind the rest of the careers. Purposely choosing a station which holds a selection of lethal looking knives. 

I’ve always been good with knives, most people in Four have at least some skill with them. I doubt what I can do would be considered particularly impressive back home, but surrounded but those who haven’t spent their lives at sea I’m hoping I can make some sort of impression. 

To me, it seems counterproductive to spend the first few hours showing off what I can do. What I want to be doing is learning new skills, not showing off the ones I already have. But Finnick and Mags’ instructions had been clear, impress first and learn later, and I suppose it makes sense when it comes to winning over my allies. 

And so I do what I’m told, spending an hour with the knives before heading over to the spears. One of the trainer’s even manages to help me add a little more distance to my throws by adjusting my stance, which might actually help me in the games. 

Eventually though, I have run out of things to show off, and decide it’s time to start learning something new. I’ve only just headed to a station full of deadly looking swords when lunch is announced, and immediately I am being called over by Murray to join the other volunteer tributes who have chosen to sit together in a cluster. 

The girl from Seven is also invited to join. 

Once again, we are back to the showboating that filled that morning’s conversation. This time however, I know it is for the purpose of intimidating the other tributes and not just establishing a pecking order to our group. 

It’s a game. Finnick has told me this repeatedly since the train journey to the Capital, and yet I can’t help but notice the outward change in Murray now he is surrounded by the other career tributes. My easy-going best friend is still there, but his usually placid nature has been replaced with something inherently more violent. 

Whatever our group is doing, it seems to be working. Already I can see several terrified tributes either trying to avoid looking at us at all costs, or unable to tear their eyes away. 

Once again, my own eyes fall automatically on the young girl. The one who hadn’t wanted to let go of her escorts hand that morning. She’s sitting alone, even her own district partner keeping their distance. And all I can think about is why anyone would want this young girl to die? Not only die, but likely endure a horrific death at the hands of another child. Surely even the most blood thirsty Hunger Games fans couldn’t get any sort of enjoyment from that.

Eventually, I have to force myself to look away from the girl. Each glance in her direction only seems to cement the knowledge that she will soon be dead. That we will all soon be making our way back to our home districts in unmarked boxes, cold and lifeless. Except one. 

I spend the rest of the day moving from station to station, trying to pick up some new skills. The edible plants station proves far more challenge than I had expected, and I resolve to spend some more time there tomorrow. It seems stupid to learn how to fend someone off with a sword, only to die at the hands of some inedible mushrooms. 

The knot tying station, however, feels like it is made for me. In Four, we spend our lives making knots. According to the instructor, he doesn’t usually see many from our district. Perhaps because we’re too busy wielding swords and throwing spears, or perhaps because we think we already know everything we need to about the skill. But he shows me how to manipulate my knots into traps that will not only help me catch food, but other humans and I can’t help but think it’s the most useful thing I’ve learnt all day. 

Since I can already tie every knot he tries to show me, I am taught some of the more impressive traps the trainer has to offer. It’s difficult, and requires the kind of logical thinking that seems far better suited to District Three’s tributes but I find after a few tries I am able to recreate half a dozen ways of ensnaring another tribute with relative ease.

By the time they let us go, I am exhausted. 

My eyes are already drifting shut by the time the elevator stops on the fourth floor, and we are met with Mags and an anxious looking Eilidh, waiting to find out how the day went. 

“Fine.” I shrug, making my way to the dinner table where food is already being laid out by one of the Avox whose job it is to assist us. It’s a little disconcerting, the idea that the Capital has physically removed this person’s ability to ever speak again. But then, perhaps they think the same thing about us, knowing we have been brought into the city with the sole purpose of fighting to the death. 

I wonder which of us thinks they have the worse deal.

“Did you sit with the other volunteers? What did you think of the other’s?” Eilidh presses, clearly not appeased by my non-committal answer. 

“Yeah, Mags was right they seemed pretty happy to have me there at lunch.” I suppose it had been the right idea, to go straight to the stations I would excel. Making sure to win them over quickly. Her second question though, I realise I have no answer too. I was too busy focusing on myself that I barely paid attention to anyone else. 

Murray however, interjects with his own account of the other volunteer tributes. 

“Onyx from One is powerful, but slow. It shouldn’t be too hard to out manoeuvre him when it comes to it. Honour is hot headed, which could be a big weakness for her, and I don’t think Antony is going to be a problem at all?” 

“Really?” I can’t help but blurt the word out, remembering the boys cruel smile. 

“What, do you really think he would win in a fight?” Murray scoffs, helping himself to some vegetables and giving me a look that suggests I may have lost it. 

“I don’t think he would try and fight you.” I reply, a brow raised. I can see Mags and Eilidh looking between the pair of us, but I ignore them for the moment. “I think he’d slit all of our throats the moment our backs were turned.” 

Murray doesn’t seem particularly bothered by this information, but Mags’ attention seems to have been grabbed. 

“What makes you think that?” 

“I dunno.” I shrug, trying to work out the best way to explain it. “It’s hard to explain. He just has this sort of look about him. Like trusting him would be a bad idea. Maybe I’m wrong.” I like to think I can usually get a good enough read on people but it’s not a specific talent of mine. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that out of all the volunteer tributes, he’s the one I’d least like to be left alone with. 

“Where’s Finnick?” Murray asks suddenly. Either in attempt to move the conversation on from discussing a tribute he doesn’t believe is worth the conversation, or because excitement from the day has only just caused him to notice half of our mentoring team isn’t here. “Shouldn’t he be listening to all this and helping us work out a plan for tomorrow.” 

Mags’ lips purse together, only for a moment, before she gives a somewhat convincing smile. The crinkle in her eyes that usually accompanies such looks, however, is missing. 

“He had to be somewhere. Don’t worry, he’ll be back by morning to go through all of this with you both.” 

“So he’s went to a party?” The word’s are slow, and I watch as he slowly takes the information in. “We’ve got how many days until the games starts, and he left us? He should be here.” Murray can’t stop the frustration creeping into his tone, and I suppose I can’t really blame him. Twice now, Finnick has decided he has better places to be. We’re supposed to have two mentors and one of them would rather be off enjoying the luxuries of the Capital than helping us stay alive. But there’s no point getting annoyed at Mags over it. She’s the one who actually stayed to help us. 

Forcing himself up to standing with enough force that I physically flinch from the unexpectedness of it, Murray shoves his hands in his pockets and mutters something about going to bed, stalking off before anyone can stop him. 

“Well really, that sort of attitude isn’t going to help anyone.” Eilidh notes disapprovingly, before carefully going back to her meal, as if the entire exchange hadn’t happened. 

“We’re meant to have two mentors.” I return, feeling the need to defend my friend. Because he’s right, Finnick should be here. I had hoped my own voice would match Murray’s in annoyance, but instead it only sounds tired. Resentment requiring more energy than I have in that moment. “You can’t blame him for being angry.” 

And then, for some stupid reason I can feel my eyes growing warm under the pressure of their stares. Either tiredness, frustration, or the realisation that I have spent the entire day in a room with my soon-to-be murderer finally creeping up on me. 

Hastily, I wipe my eyes before tears threaten to spill over and like Murray mutter an excuse about needing to sleep. 

I don’t bother to acknowledge Mags’ pitying look as I make my way out of the room.


	7. Chapter 7

Exhaustion drives me straight to bed. 

Fumbling out of my training clothes, I can’t find the energy to shower off the sweat from that days workout. Instead, I simply pull on the same nightgown I had worn the previous night and climb into bed, hoping sleep will coax me into a carefree oblivion. 

Instead, the moment my head touches the pillow I am suddenly wide awake. Body exhausted, but brain refusing to submit to nothingness. 

Frustrated, I stay tucked under the covers. Contorting my body into different positions in an effort to invite sleep. Growing more frustrated and further from my goal the longer I stay there. 

Eventually, I’m forced to give up. Staring into the darkness, I squint in an attempt to make out the ceiling fan that I know lingers above my bed, thinking of what awaits me over the next few days and potentially weeks. Daytime in the arena is one thing, but for some reason it is the nights that terrify me most. I have no idea why, since the other tributes are just as likely to kill me in the daylight as they are in darkness. If anything, at least at night I potentially won’t be forced to see them coming. 

But fears have never been a rational thing I suppose. 

Forcing my thoughts away from nights in a still unknown arena and teenagers coming to kill me, I instead make my way to the bathroom and begin to mess around with the taps, planning to run a bath. I press one button too many and the end result is a sickly-sweet concoction with vibrant lavender bubbles. It’s not a particularly enjoyable smell for someone used to salt water and sand, but it seems wasteful to get rid of it and try again, and so I silently slip in, letting the warm water sooth my aching muscles.

I stay in the bath until it’s almost cold, before wrapping myself in a fluffy robe and making my way back to bed. 

Still, sleep doesn’t come. 

Rest is essential if I’m going to manage anything successfully during tomorrow’s second day of training. I don’t function well without sleep. I hate the dull haze that seems to radiate through my entire being when I’ve been forced to get up earlier than I would have liked. Spending as much time on the boats as I do, early mornings and little sleep should be something I’m used to. But anyone who has been forced to listen to me grumble as we prepare for the day’s sailing excursion would argue otherwise. 

Finally though, I am forced to admit that rest is not something I will be getting tonight. At least not for another few hours, when my near delirious body will hopefully finally manage to override my overactive brain. 

And so, I do what I do best on the rare nights when sleep evades me. Wander. 

The fourth floor of the tribute centre is large, but it doesn’t take long before I have done three laps of the various rooms on offer. Briefly, I consider waking Murray up to bask in my sleep deprived misery with me, but a reminder of just how selfish that action would be stops me. 

Instead, I go to the small kitchen area, deciding to make tea. 

All the options sound too fancy. Lavender and bergamot and guava. What I want is something with seaweed. Just a small reminder of home and my life back in District Four. Of my Father. Briefly, I wonder if he has returned from his trip yet. Stepped back on land to discover his only daughter has been whisked away to the Capital to be slaughtered in front of the entire nation. But as quickly as the thoughts creep up, I try to push them back down. I’m not ready to process those particular emotions yet. 

Even attempting to think about how my Father must feel right now hurts in a way I hadn’t imagined possible. We’ve always been a team. Just me and him since the day my Mother died. I know my life has been sheltered because of my dad’s determination to shield me from the harshness of the world. Babied even, some might say. But my happy childhood was a far cry from what so many others had to endure, because of his insistence on keeping me safe. And I can only thank him for it.

Of course, he couldn’t shield me from the executions we were forced to watch, or the lashings. But if I compared my life to some of the other eighteen year old in District Four, I know I have always been kept safe from the majority of the cruelties the Capital inflicts on us. 

Until now. 

Choosing the simplest tea I can find, I begin to prepare my mug when a bleary eyed Capital attendant asks if there’s anything he can do to help. Clearly he had been asleep only moments beforehand, and is likely cursing me internally for ruining his slumber. “No, it’s alright. I’ve got it.” I return, pouring the now boiling water into mug before he can say otherwise. 

Watching the attendant go, I have a feeling he won’t get the chance to go back to bed. Now he knows I am up, it’s likely his job to make sure I am catered for. Perhaps he’ll even get into trouble over the fact I made my own tea. It’s horrible, but I can’t find it in me to muster up the will to care. 

Making my way to one of the loveseats near the television, I’ve barely settled down with my still scalding drink when the sound of the elevator doors opening causes me to startle. 

And there he is. Looking beautiful as ever. Upon realising he’s not alone in the room, his features contort almost instantly into one of his Capital worthy expressions. But I don’t miss it. The brief moment he looks not like a young man who is pleasantly exhausted after a night of enjoyable experiences, but one who is consumed by a tired misery. 

“You really don’t like to sleep, do you?” Finnick questions, watching me in what I assume is faux amusement as he shrugs off the light jacket he wears and lazily tosses it onto a nearby counter. 

“I love sleep. It just doesn’t particularly like me right now” I return, voice not quite my own as I hold his gaze. I’m torn over what could possibly have caused the expression he’s masking, and the lingering annoyance I feel over the fact he abandoned us in favour of the Capital. Not once now, but twice. “Did you enjoy your night?” I question, mild accusation slipping into my tone before I have the chance to think it through. Because yes, I am annoyed with Finnick Odair. Whatever misery he feels, perhaps it is deserved. 

The words cause his face to harden, just a flicker of betrayal in his emotions before his casual exterior returns. “It was great.” 

“Why are you lying?” 

“What makes you think I’m lying?” 

“It’s all a game, remember?” I return, using the word he had thrown about so casually on the train. 

He simply looks at me, brows twitching as if desperate to knit together. And so I decide to press further. 

“You know, you don’t have to put on a show for everyone. I’m not from the Capital. I don’t care what you say or feel.” Which isn’t quite true, but to say otherwise would ruin the point I’m trying to make. “Besides, who cares what a dead girl knows, right?” It’s morbid, yes. But all too likely true. I will be dead in a few days time.

“Quite the optimist, aren’t you.” He returns, though his face has morphed into an expression I can’t quite place, but at the very least it seems genuine. 

“Well, it’s true isn’t it?” The words come out in a sigh, the last of my annoyance at Finnick and his insistence on leaving us for better options draining away in favour of the real cause of my frustration. I’ve spent the last few days trying to act like the tribute I am expected to be, both in the hopes of gaining sponsors and also to keep everyone else appeased. Murray in particular. But it feels oddly satisfying to allow myself this small descent into hopelessness. A short burst of momentary relief before I go back to bottling my emotions away once again. 

Besides, what does it matter if Finnick knows. He’s already shown he’s not the mentor I should rely on. 

He continues to stare at me, as if trying to work something out. Finally, he hesitates before reaching out to offer me his hand. “Has anyone shown you the roof yet?” 

The question is so odd that my natural instinct is to recoil away from the offer, sure it is meant as something sleazy. But as I lift my gaze to meet his, ready to turn him down, I find his expression isn’t what I had expected. I had assumed he would be wearing one of the looks he so often does in the rare photographs that sometimes line our newspaper back home. The photos that usually involve his arm wrapped hungrily around some rich Capital citizen, and where you can practically feel him licking his lips. Instead, he just looks like a boy. 

I’m not sure who is more surprised when I reach up to take his hand. 

\---

The roof is colder than I anticipated, a harsh wind making the few hairs that haven’t been ripped out by a stylist stand on end. Immediately I wish I’d had the good sense to at least put my dressing gown on before making the elevator journey to the roof. 

Finnick dropped my hand the moment he had helped me from the couch, and spent the ride up making what I think were jokes about every tribute needing to see the roof at least once before leaving the tribute centre for the arena. 

I suppose, objectively the view is breath-taking. Buildings upon buildings, ostentatiously designed and beautifully presented. But what I notice most are the lack of stars. There’s too much pollution in the air, blocking out what has always made the night sky so wonderful to me, only further cementing the artificial nature of where I am. 

“The tribute centre’s great and all, but the airs always feels wrong since they won’t let us open any windows.” Finnick notes, planting himself down against a wall, knees raising to his chest, relaxing against the stone. “This is the one place you can get any fresh air.” 

“It doesn’t smell like fresh air.” That’s not exactly true. It’s far preferable to the pumped in air conditioning of the tribute centre, filling my lungs in a satisfying way for the first time since the tribute parade. But to me, fresh air smells like the sea. Anything else just feels wrong. “I wish I was home.” Another admission I had told myself I would keep inside, slipping out as easy as a sigh. Apparently, my tired body won’t let me sleep, but it’s more than happy to betray my secrets to vague acquaintances. 

“Well, if you want to go home you’re going to need to stop acting like the games are already lost.” He replies simply, before patting a spot on the cool ground beside him. “Sit down, Annie.” 

The ground is freezing, and yet not unpleasant. I relax back into the wall and let my legs sprawl out in front of me. 

“You know stranger things have happened.” Finnick presses on, happy to ignore my silence as the wish to move on from the subject I had hoped it would project. “And then you’ll get to enjoy all the wonders of being a victor.” I just about make out the edge of bitterness to his tone, but I’m too wrapped up in my own problems to properly acknowledge it. 

“I don’t want all the wonders of being a victor.” I don’t need a house in the Victor’s Village, or money, or fancy jewels from adoring fans. I don’t want to replace my old life with a shining new one. “I just want to go home.” 

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. Winning mean’s going home, sure. But it’s different. Different house. People treat you differently. You’re different.” Of course he’s right. I had never spoken to Finnick in school, but we were close enough in age that I saw him frequently enough. Suddenly, I can’t help but think of the group of boys he used to hang around with at fourteen. And how nowadays they walk past each other like passing strangers. Who had cut off the friendship? Finnick? Or had the boys decided they didn’t want him amongst their midst anymore.

“No-one ever tells you it might be better to die in the games.” The words cut off my thoughts about long ago discarded friendships and turn my expression perplexed. Surely he didn’t actually believe that.

“I don’t know if the dead tributes would agree with you.” I might not like the idea of moving to the Victor’s Village, or losing friendships, or being forced to spend time in the Capital. But surely all these things are better than death. 

“Maybe not…” Finnick agrees, the ghost of a laugh echoing in the words. But there’s a doubt lingering behind his tone. Curiosity takes over before I can stop to think the question through, and I find myself blurting the words out. 

“Finnick, if you hate all these parties and being a victor then why do you go? Why bother?”

“There’s not much choice in the matter.” 

“Oh?” 

But that seems to be the only information he’s willing to give on the subject and I don’t feel comfortable pushing the matter. And so for a few minutes we sit in awkward silence, his words hanging painfully in the air until finally I feel the need to break it.

“I’m pretty sure the boy from Two is going to murder us all in our sleep.” 

For a few seconds he simply stares at me, trying to work out if I’m serious before his lips curve slowly upwards into a smile, and then a laugh, the tension he holds visibly relaxing as he leans back against the wall. “Well, try and avoid that if you can. Brutus will never let me live it down if you two both go down that easily.” 

“Well, I was considering just letting him.” I return, eyes rolling in the same way I do whenever Murray or my Dad makes a particularly bad joke, though somehow I find a grin has somehow found its way onto my lips. Nervous, and not fully formed. But there all the same. “But for the sake of your reputation I suppose I better try.” 

“That’s all I ask.” 

And despite the fact we are openly joking about my murder, for the first time since I have arrived in the Capital I feel something closed to relaxed. 

We sit in silence for a few minutes longer, though it lacks the awkwardness that the previous one had held. In fact, I am sure that despite the cold, I would be quite content to sit there for remainder of the night.


	8. Chapter 8

The second day of training doesn’t differ exponentially from the first. I move about from station to station, trying to pick up anything that could possibly help me survive the arena. A brief moment of superiority even happens as Murray and I mess around with the tridents, both of us handling the weapon with such ease that even Honour can’t quite hide her jealousy. 

They rarely have tridents in the arena. Every so often the weapon will crop up, or in Finnick’s case enough sponsors will band together to actually buy you one. But to put a weapon perfectly designed for the tributes from District Four into the games each year would scream favouritism. And favouritism is not something District Four has ever had. 

In many ways the same could be said for those in District Seven and axes, but really anyone can wield an axe and do at least a little damage. All you need is half decent aim. To truly work a trident you need some skill. 

Even if there aren’t any tridents in the arena, it’s strangely comforting to know the other tributes are now aware that if there was, I could do something with it. 

Dinner is a relaxed affair. Finnick is there, which has considerably lightened Murray’s mood from the previous evening. Anger at his idle lasting as long as it took for Finnick to offer him some bread. Now, he’s chatting eagerly about his private session with the Game Makers. What he did, how impressed some of them looked, with just enough self-deprecating humour in the story that his words don’t tip the scales over to arrogance. 

Just. 

As Mag’s asked how my own session went, I shrug, not entirely sure. “Fine. Well… I think.” Then again, I had been made to immediately follow Murray, so it must have been quite the downgrade for the Game Makers. “I did what you said.” Moving about from area to area, never staying at one place too long. Whilst I am adequate in a number of weapons, I’m not impressive enough in anything to truly wow the people who will be scoring me. I’m not Murray who has spent his life training for this moment. And so, it was decided that quantity over quality was the best approach when it came to my private training session. Mags had suggested the idea that morning as I was beginning to panic over the whole thing. 

“Well, neither of you have to wait long now.” Eilidh chimes in, as if we aren’t all perfectly aware of what time the scores will be aired. It doesn’t change from year to year. I suppose she’s trying to feel useful, since weapons and impressing Game Makers are not something she is able to offer assistance in. 

I give her a small smile in response, my head nodding briefly, as if I had been previously unaware of the fact. Mostly because I feel bad, she’s not awful really. 

Five minutes before the scores are meant to be announced, as if a bell has tolled instructing us to do so, we all get up silently from our chairs and make our way to the living area. Even our stylists have dropped in for the announcement. Perhaps our scores will immediately impact what they put us in for the interviews, or maybe they’re just expected to be here. 

Either way Magnolia looks like she would rather be anywhere else in the world. Fraternising with tributes on a non-official basis must be very degrading for her. 

Between the seven of us, despite the vast space of the room it’s a tight squeeze. I find myself wedged between Finnick and Murray, Mags apparently deciding I don’t need my hand held this time. Or maybe she just hadn’t been able to get to me before Murray’s stylist Tiberius had practically barged his way in front of her in an effort to get to one of the seats that meant he wasn’t required to share with anyone. 

Finnick has been glaring at him ever since. 

It’s a weird relationship. Finnick and Mag’s. Whilst they work as a team, there are rare moments where I catch her doting on him, in an almost parent-esque manner. And then he occasionally slips into reliance on her when he think’s no-one will notice. Catching her eye after he says something as if waiting for an approving nod. 

Any chance to consider the matter further however is halted as the anthem plays and the screening of our scores begins. Two nines for Onyx and Satine of District One. That sounds about right. The commentators make a few comments, a joke about Satine’s beauty likely earning her an extra point or two which I don’t like. Anyone who has seen her wield a sword knows that isn’t the case. 

The District Two tributes do similarly well. An eight for Antony and a ten for Honour. I can only imagine what kind of impressive feat she did to get the score. Then again, almost everything about her screams impressive. Terrifying, but impressive. 

The tributes from Three score a four and a two. The latter is met with audible shock in our room. I’m sure around Panem similar gasps aren’t uncommon. A two is usually saved for someone who has come into the competition ill. It is basically a declaration that this person will die quickly in the arena. 

And then it’s our turn. 

The number ten is flashing around a picture of Murray before I truly have time to let panic take over. There are cheers and Finnick leans behind me to slap the boy in the back.

“Ten.” The words come out of Murray’s mouth as if in disbelief. He can’t help the grin that has pulled wide on his lips, features contorted in delight. Despite his earlier words, perhaps my best friend had started to worry he was less impressive than he had originally thought. 

“Well, we all knew it was coming.” I return, elbowing him lightly before I lean my weight against him, hoping he will keep me steady for what is about to happen. 

I don’t notice I’m holding my breath until an audible sigh of relief escapes me, my head leans back against the edge of the couch in disbelief and I barely notice the other’s voices as they chime in with their congratulations. An eight. An eight is the same score as someone who actually volunteered to take part in the games. It suggests that I know what I’m doing. That I am someone the people of the Capital should consider. 

“Now that we can work with.” I don’t even know who utters the words, but I think it might be Magnolia.

I can barely concentrate on the rest of the show, numbers and faces all blurring together as I stare blankly at the screen, attempting to at least pretend I am taking it all in. The only person that stands out is the girl from Seven who scores a nine. Nobody else manages more than a six. 

\---

Once again, we spend our night on the roof top. 

It’s not a spoken arrangement. I struggle to sleep, and when I start on my first lap of the floor I find Finnick is already there. Sitting on the seat Tiberius had occupied during the showing of our scores earlier that evening. 

I can’t help but think his comment from the previous night about my inability to sleep was an awfully hypocritical one. Considering the words came directly from the man who, from what I can tell, doesn’t even attempt to submit to slumber. He’s always either out partying or avoiding his room entirely. 

Neither of us say a word, but he gestures to the elevator and I respond with a silent nod of agreement. Though I remember to run back and collect my dressing gown before we head up, not wanting to subject myself to the bitter winds of the training centre roof for a second night in a row.

I can’t help but feel a little guilty. Like maybe I should have invited Murray to join us, but I know the moment my best friend took his place as part of the group he would immediately try and steer the conversation to the games. Turn our impromptu gathering into another training session. 

Currently, it is the opposite. Instead of dwelling on the games, we are two people evidently trying to forget their existence. Burying ourselves in pointless stories from home in an effort to convince ourselves that we are in fact there. 

There is an unspoken rule that neither of us discuss the other’s issues. That one of us will be dead in a few days, that the other is clearly involved in a lifestyle he has no wish to be a part of, but has no means of escaping. 

I still don’t understand what is going on there. What he meant by not having a choice. Out of the two of us, surely it’s only me that no longer gets to choose how their life unfolds. Finnick is a victor. He already escaped his games. 

But then the Capital isn’t known for its kindness. 

Something lurks under the surface of the glamorous victors’ lifestyles the Capital’s propaganda newscasts would lead those in the district to believe. But whatever it is, I can’t work it out and Finnick is not willingly offering the information up. 

And so, we stick to happier topics. 

“You’re Dad once caught me asleep behind some barrels whilst we were out collecting shellfish.” Finnick notes, an amusement tinging his words I’ve never quite heard before. He’s been going on about sailing trips for twenty minutes now. I don’t bother to interrupt him, because it’s the first time he seems perfectly content. Younger somehow. 

Right now, it’s far easier to see him as a boy who is technically only a year older than me, rather than a mentor. 

“We’d been going nonstop for days and we were all exhausted. Dead on our feet.” He continues, grinning despite my raised brow. Sleeping when we aren’t meant to on boats isn’t the done thing. Or maybe it is, but my Dad had always installed the belief in me that it’s the height of laziness. Done only by bad sailors because it’s selfish and lets the team down. “Believe me, any one of us would’ve done it if we’d had the chance. I just happened to be the one to find the spot. Saw my opportunity and reckoned I better take my chance. Thought he was going to throw me overboard when he found me.” His light laugh pierces the air, and despite my still raised brow, I can’t help but return it because it’s a wonder my Father didn’t do exactly that. 

“Well, he runs a tight ship.” I return, leaning back against the wall, tearing one of the leaves I had picked up from the floor idly with my fingers. “If it was anyone else he would have told them they’d never work on his boat again. But he likes you.” 

It feels weird to talk about my Father. I’ve spent most of my time here putting all my thoughts about him into a tiny little box. Knowing that to embrace them would send me dangerously close to breaking down about not only how much I miss him but everything that has unfolded in my life over the past week. And so I push them down, force them into the box knowing I will either survive the arena and see him again, or die and never have to acknowledge any of it. 

But Finnick’s enjoying his story, and I feel bad asking him to change the subject, so I let it continue.

“Yeah?” Finnick questions, a mixture of confusion and perhaps a hint of genuine pleasure contorting his expression. “Dunno why.” 

“He thought you were good to have on the team.” I return with a shrug, though there’s a small smile playing on my lips as memories of conversations had long ago seem to flood me. “Dunno why though, if you’re falling asleep on the job.” 

Finnick snorts. 

“What about you then Annie, why did you never come on any of the jobs?” 

“School, I suppose.” I shrug. “We would go out on Sundays though, to get st-“ my words cut off, and I hastily search for new ones. “To get anything they Capital might be short on.” 

It’s a lie. 

In reality, on our days off nobody is particularly interested in helping the Capital out. Instead, me and my Father would go out, along with some of the other sailors and try and catch our own suppers for the next week. Saying that out loud however, feels dangerous. Poaching is illegal and according to President Snow, every fish in the sea is property of Panem. More than one of my Father’s friends has been punished for it over the years. 

Once, a friend of my Dad’s was caught with a haul so big, he was sentenced to immediate execution. That had scared everyone off for a while, but slowly people began to make their way back to the sea. They always did. 

Finnick will all too likely knows this goes on. But I can’t shake the feeling anything I say, even on an empty rooftop in the middle of the Capital will come back to negatively impact those I love at home. 

Finnick only nods his head in a slow deliberate sort of way, the way that implies he knows exactly what I mean. 

The sun is starting to rise by the time sleep begins to take hold. My eyes droop as the blood red sky begins to light up the brightly coloured buildings that make up the Capital. 

“Look, I’ve finally bored you too sleep.” Finnick notes, and all I give is a strange grunt in response, pushing myself up to standing as my bed finally calls too me. With any luck, I’ll get a few hours of sleep in before someone decides it’s essential I be up. 

“Are you coming?” I manage to get out, turning back to see if Finnick is behind me, only to find him still sitting. He shakes his head. 

“No, you go ahead. I’m going to stay here for a while longer.” 

“Okay, night then.” It seems odd to be saying goodnight when dawn is breaking, but I’m not sure what else you’re meant to say in such a situation. I’ve never stayed up this late before. 

“Goodnight Annie.”


	9. Chapter 9

I can hear Finnick and Murray laughing from the other room. It’s mildly disconcerting, since whilst my day hasn’t been unpleasant, I can’t say it has left me in much of a laughing mood. Their session must have been going far better than my own. Though it’s easy for my best friend, I suppose. He came into the games already knowing how he wanted to play them. He didn’t need to search for a persona to win over the Capital audience, having spent years back in District Four attempting to carve one out. Finnick would undoubtedly have his suggestions. Small changes that would only add to the illusion. But for the most part, he was ready for this. 

I on the other hand, still have no idea how I’m meant to pass the three minutes I will have with Cesar Flickerman. In theory, it isn’t a long time. A handful of seconds that would fly by without notice, under regular circumstances. But with nothing to say and all of Panem watching me, I know they will pass with all the fluidity of cooling tar. 

I have always thought of myself as a pleasant enough person. Waving to people in the marketplace back home, keeping my occasionally crueller thoughts to myself, offering my help when I can see it’s needed. By no means a pinnacle of goodness, but as far as human’s went, fine. 

I am a fine person.

Fine however, wasn’t going to win me any favours. Not when the Capital would be expecting dazzling. 

Mags has decided that there is no point in attempting to overly coach me. Apparently, there had already been a discussion between our mentors in which they had agreed that trying too hard to make me into something I’m not would only end in disaster. One day, it seems, simply wasn’t enough time to carefully craft a persona that would stand up against Cesar’s questions and the scrutiny of the audience. One wrong question and the façade would melt away. 

Instead, it was decided I am to be myself tomorrow night. Or rather, a more composed version of myself. The day has so far been spent putting together acceptable answers to various questions I might be asked. Whilst Mag’s expression has been kind, and her words encouraging throughout the entire process, I can see what we are really doing is damage control. She’s not confident in my ability to win over the crowds. My constructed answers are simple, occasionally even mildly charming once they have been worked and reworked, but it’s clear I won’t be gaining an army of new wealthy sponsors as a result of my interview. Instead, we were simply trying to get through the three minutes without losing the handful of people who are, hopefully, already interested in parting with their money in hopes of helping to keep me alive.

According to Eilidh, who has spent the day flitting between the rooms periodically, this is the strategy most tributes take. It’s impossible for all twenty-four of us to stand out, especially when we are also competing against the Capital citizen’s favourite interviews from previous games. Fond memories of winning smiles and hilarious stories that belong to long ago slaughtered children. Sometimes, it’s simply better to keep your head down and try not to stand out for the wrong reasons. 

By the time we are done, I am exhausted, though pretty confident I won’t become an incoherent mess in the wake of Cesar Flickerman’s questions the following day. Murray and Finnick are already there, having an animated conversation which seems to revolve almost entirely around tridents. More than happy not to get involved, I nod hello before pulling a dish of roast potatoes closer to me, filling my plate. 

“How’d it go?” Murray questions, finally allowing himself to be distracted from the discussion. His lazy grin crooked in my direction. Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder if the boy has any fear. Surely he does. Only someone who is completely deluded, or perhaps psychotic could view their involvement in the Hunger Games with only excitement. But if he is at all apprehensive about what we are about to be forced to do, he isn’t showing it. Nor has he since his brief slip up on the train, when my involvement had taken him by surprise. 

I simply nodded in response, using a purposefully large bite of my meal to stop me from having to actually say anything. There is only so many times I can say the word ‘fine’ before eventually it will lose all meaning and anything else felt like a lie. 

With the promise of a long day tomorrow, we are sent to bed early. 

I expect it now, my bodies refusal to submit to slumber. And so, I do what I have done the previous few nights. Wait until an adequate amount of time has passed and then slip out of the covers once again, making my way to the main living area. After a day stuck inside with not even training to properly distract me, I need the relief of the roof and some fresh air. 

Stepping into the living room, I can’t help but blink in surprise when I find it deserted. I had expected Finnick’s familiar face to great me. Instead, I am met with only a Capital attendant, who has likely been instructed to stay up and cater to us because of our refusal to stay in our rooms the previous few nights.

Maybe he has finally decided his own bed isn’t such a bad place after all. That, or he had been called to another late night party. The type that would appear in one of the handful of government regulated newspapers that are allowed to exist. If newspapers is even the right word. Documents, filled with Capitalist propaganda and individualised for each district so we never know too much about one another. Right now, they will be almost entirely dedicated to the games. Filled with statistics and recounts of how well we have performed so far. The only people who actually buy them are usually peacekeepers, or those attempting to make their way up in the world. 

Not that there is anywhere to go in District Four. 

Going back to bed feels wrong somehow, and I no longer feel brave enough to go to the roof. No matter how much I crave the fresh air. With the Capital attendant watching, and no Finnick to act as a mentor to hide behind the idea of it makes me suddenly nervous in a way it hadn’t before. Is being on the roof even allowed, or had they simply turned a blind eye in the past on account of me being in the company of the Capital’s golden boy. 

Instead, I ask for a hot chocolate and sit in silence on the loveseat at the edge of the living room, ignoring the fact the liquid is too hot. 

___ 

By the time the interviews are over, I am itching to leave the stage. I’ve been stuck in the same spot for over an hour now. On one of the uncomfortable seats that sit just behind Cesar, allowing the Capital to engrain our faces into their memory. From tomorrow, we will be all they are able to talk about. 

Some of my fellow tributes, like Murray, look confident as they make their way off the stage. Knowing they performed well. Other’s still look shellshocked, as if unable to believe something could go so badly. The girl from Eight is sobbing quietly into her dress. 

I have no idea how I feel. 

Relieved mostly, that it’s over. Whilst I managed to make my way through the interview without stumbling, and Cesar was kind enough to laugh at the one poor attempt for a joke I slid in, my interview was average at best. The mediocre applause from the Capital audience as I left the stage an all too clear indication that I had not been the standout performance of the evening. I knew this would be the case. We had never planned for anything else. And yet, in the wake of Honour’s wild reception, their tolerance had felt like dismissal. The audience had eaten up her intimidating nature, the way she made it seem like she was uniquely designed to survive these games. Like being a victor wasn’t just a possibility but a certainty. 

I would have certainly put my money on her. 

“You were brilliant!” Eilidh is practically giddy with excitement as she reaches to help Murray down the final few stairs, barely glancing in my direction. “That story about the sea turtle, hilarious.” Clearly he is the golden boy of the night, which is well earned, since his interview was a shining example of how to win over a crowd. In comparison to my pleasant but mostly bland answers, he had been like a breath of fresh air for the audience. Joking with Cesar, making subtle hints at his tremendous abilities with certain weapons. Winking freely at the handful of young woman who had called his name. You could tell they all wanted more time with him when the three minutes were up, desperate to know him better. 

Some people are simply born with charisma. 

“It’s done now.” A quiet, if somewhat amused voices whispers in my ear. Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, as if unsure I will walk the correct way if left to my own accord, Finnick guides me back to the elevator. “Hard parts over.” Mags’ is on my other side. Clearly, both mentors know which of their tributes needed the confidence bolster. 

“I don’t think that’s meant to be the hard part.” 

“It was for me.” 

That’s probably true. Finnick had taken to killing with remarkable ease. But then he had taken to interviews with remarkable ease as well, able to charm an audience in the space of a heartbeat. Somehow, I have a feeling my attempts at the former will be as mediocre as the latter. 

“Well good for you.” I return, harsh sarcasm slipping into my tone, ringing like a bell in each syllable before I can stop myself. Instead of being offended however, Finnick only laughs, on my other side Mags guffaws. 

“Boy’s got an ego the size of a ship.” Mags’ words are filled with affection as her gaze flickers from me to her fellow mentor, and once again I am curious as to the relationship between the pair. How well do they know each other? Of course they both live in the Victor’s Village, but even for neighbours they seem close. Are all the victor’s like this? Maybe they are bound together by what they survived. And what they did in order to survive. 

“Mr Odair.” 

The words cause us to pull to a stop, Murray and Eilidh both following suit when they realise something is going on. The man who spoke Finnick’s name is dressed in a dark suit, lemon yellow hair sticking out at odd angles. He’s backed up by two others’ dressed in a similar manner. A uniform, clearly. 

“Yeah?” Finnick asks, his voice casual though I can feel him stiffen beside me, as if preparing for a punch to the gut. 

“Your company has been requested for the evening.” From the way the words are spoken, it is clear request was not the term that should have been used. The words are friendly enough, but there is an element of demand to them. 

“It’s the last night with our tributes.” Finnick starts, brows creased though he is already letting go of me, perhaps already knowing this is a fight he will ultimately lose. “I always get the final night with my tributes.” Mags looks uncomfortable, glaring at the man in dislike as she grabs my hand to pull me back, as if worried a fight would soon break out. 

“What’s up?” Murray has retreated back to us, his tone curious but light, not yet grasping the sudden tension in the air. As he does, his face hardens as his gaze moves from Finnick, to me, to the men. “What’s going on?” 

I wish I knew. 

“I’ll come with you later. I need an hour to go over some last-minute details.” Finnick insists, looking ready to grab both me and Murray by the arm and march us to the elevator. He’s not happy with the arrangement, and despite the intimidating size of the yellow haired man we all know who would win if a physical scuffle broke out. Perhaps that was why there were three of them. 

“President Snow has requested your immediate presence.” 

That does it. The use of Snow’s name. Finnick’s defiant stance seems to crumble under the words and with a glance at Mags’, he nods. “Fine. Just give me a minute.” 

Turning back to the group, he doesn’t look at either me or Murray. Instead his gaze seems to be fixed on a point in the distance as he begins to quietly recount the last minute details he apparently needs us to know. “Stick together, do not separate from one another under any circumstances. Even in the cornucopia, fight side by side. Annie, pick a small target and get an early kill. Do not trust your allies, do not trust the arena.” The words are flying at me with startling pace, and I’m barely able to register one instruction before another is assaulting me. “Get water and as much weapons as you can carry, you’ll lose them quicker than you think. Control as much of the food as you can.” A hand is on his arm now but he is shrugging it off. “I’m coming. Remember, I’m expecting one of you to get out of there alive.” And then he is turning, not offering a final official goodbye as he follows the men to one of the doors that leads out of the tribute centre. 

“What the hell was that.” Murray whispers in disbelief. The rest of us simply stare at his retreating back, dumbfounded. 

“Come on, back up to fourth floor we get.” Mags begins to prompt us onto the elevator, though her kind features have been replaced with something harsher. Whatever just happened, she is not happy about it. 

“Okay.” I nod, taking both her and Murray’s hand in each of my own and stepping onto the glass elevator. I can’t help but shift my head, trying to catch a last look at Finnick as he is led away. Mentors don’t get to see their tributes on the day of the games. I remember Magnolia mentioning it once in passing once as she dressed me. How the time before tributes make their way to the arena was her domain, free from mentors. That means, surely I have just had my last conversation with Finnick Odair. 

I don’t know him. Not well anyway. And yet there is a sting, knowing that is the case.


	10. Chapter 10

Nobody is willing to break the silence that has spanned the length of our elevator ride. Eilidh looks uncomfortable whilst Mags is trying to contain a silent fury. It’s clear both women have a better idea of what just unfolded than either myself or Murray, whose brows are now furrowed, as if sure concentrating will help him unravel whatever he is clearly missing. 

Despite the time they have spent together these last few days, I’m not sure how many of Finnick and Murray’s conversations have ventured into non-game related territory. Surely the number is low. Perhaps they have only ever discussed the games. If that is the case, then there is a good chance my best friend is the least clued in of us all. Utterly lost in regards to the scene that has just unfolded. 

At least I can combine the handful of limited knowledge I have been offered and attempt to muddle together some sort of theory as to what just happened. 

I know Finnick had openly implied that he didn’t get a choice when it came to the parties he attended. I know he puts on some sort of show, though I still don’t understand why. I know he’s not happy, or at least, he’s not as happy with his life as one would expect a victor to be. I can’t help but feel stupid as I try to work through the information, failing to draw a set conclusion. Am I missing something obvious? 

Probably. 

Whatever our mentor is doing now however, this isn’t the time to think about it. In a matter of hours I will be in the arena and that has to be my focus. Surviving has to be my priority. 

The elevator doors open, and we all shuffle out awkwardly. It’s clear no-one is entirely sure what to do now. Will Mags and Eilidh send us to immediately bed? Knowing that to do so will result in us sleeping away some of the last of the few short hours we have remaining? Will they suggest we stay up and prepare, risking the tiredness that would come with it? I doubt that is an option. Going into the games already exhausted is a sure-fire way to find yourself dead within the first day. Though even if Mags does send us to bed, how am I meant to sleep without dreaming of arenas and killer children?

“Your stylists will come to dress you in the morning. They will be responsible for you from now on, or until you are in the arena at least.” Eilidh breaks the silence, though her voice has lost the friendlier tone it had been developing over the previous days. As if already detaching herself from the situation. 

I suppose it must be easier that way. Watching year after year as children you have come to know get slaughtered surely has to be draining, even for those in the Capital. At least, I hope that would be the case. But then their barbarism has never failed to baffle me before. 

Maybe she’s just ready to move on to her next project? 

We both nod, and even Murray seems robbed of words. Has it finally hit him? Just how terrible the situation we have found ourselves in really is? That both of us can’t survive the games and more than likely neither of us will? 

And then Mags is hugging us, and telling us it has been a pleasure, and reminding us to stick together. She’s smiling, but there’s a lingering sadness behind the look that threatens to make me weep. Hastily I swipe at my suddenly too warm eyes and allow myself to be pulled into a hug. Murray doesn’t bother to wait his turn, engulfing the pair of us in one swift motion. 

And for a moment, we stand there. The three of us. Knowing that this is likely the last time we will ever see our mentor. 

“Thank you.” I half whisper the words, if only because my face is so close to hers in our lingering three way hug. “For everything.” My chances of surviving the games might be small, but they are still far greater than they would have ever been without my Mags as my mentor. “Tell Finnick as well.” 

“Don’t worry about that girlie.” She returns, before placing a soft kiss against my cheek and removing herself from the embrace and taking a step back. “Now go to bed. Both of you.” It’s an instruction rather than a suggestion. Eilidh has already made her way back to the elevator door where she lingers. I can’t help but think it’s a tactical retreat, in case she had accidentally found herself unwittingly involved in our embrace on account of standing too close. She gives us both a nod and makes her way out of the room.

“Goodbye Eilidh.” Murray calls, because he simply can’t help himself. I catch his eye, and briefly we smile at each other before Mags is reminding us that we need to get as much rest as possible. 

“She says that like it’s going to be easy.” I half mutter as we make our way along the small corridor that leads to our rooms. Sleep has avoided me for days now, and tonight will surely be worse than most. 

“Tomorrow’s going to come, no matter what.” Murray says simply, his shoulders pulling into a shrug. “May as well try and sleep.” Before I can argue that trying to sleep isn’t the issue, Murray captures my hand and pulls me close for one last hug. “It wasn’t meant to be like this.” 

He’s right. It wasn’t. Whilst my best friend had long ago committed himself to these games, they have never been something I wanted to be a part of. I should be at home, in District Four. Watching the recap of the interviews with my Father and trying to convince myself I will see my best friend in person again. 

“I suppose this is what tributes from the outlying districts feel like every year.” And even that’s not true, because I have come into the games with the distinct advantage of coming from a career district. I’ve got allies. Potential sponsors who will trust my being from Four has provided me with an advantage. The tributes from District Twelve, or Ten, or Eight would never get that luxury unless they have come into the games with an extraordinary ability to kill from the offset. “We’re not meant to get a say in who’s chosen.” Because we’re not meant to be competing for glory, no matter what the Capital says. We’re here to be sacrifices. 

Career tributes shouldn’t be allowed to exist. Perhaps they wouldn’t, under other circumstances. But the Capital audience both love and bet heavily on us. And even the Capital with all its wealth can’t turn down the kind of money we generate. 

“I’m going to keep us both alive Annie. I swear I will.” His voice is more urgent now, as if worried somebody is going to come along and drag me away like they did Finnick. 

“I know.” I’m not sure what else to say. Because I know he will try and do exactly that, but in the end what difference will it really make? There’s only one victor, and I would rather die at the hands of another tribute than get far enough into the games that Murray has to kill me himself. Would he even be able to do it? Maybe we would simply stand there so long, reluctant to turn our weapons on one another that the Gamemakers would end up doing the job for us. 

It’s not like they’re haven’t killed tributes before, even if they’re never credited with the official death blow. It’s always a volcano, a landslide, a sudden snowstorm when a tribute who has been causing problems has no immediate access to shelter. 

“Get some sleep.” Despite the instructions, he doesn’t immediately let go of me. I have to wriggle my way out of his arms and take a few steps backwards towards my door. “I’ll see you tomorrow Annie.” 

“See you in the arena.” 

“I’ll be holding the trident.” He gives a half-hearted grin at his own joke, and I simply nod in return before opening the door to my room. Leaving him standing there. 

I’m not sure if I actually sleep. I spend most of the night tossing under bedcovers, imagining different arenas and various weapons being used against me. Stuck somewhere between consciousness and nightmares. 

It’s Magnolia who wakes me, my prep team bouncing along behind her as if they have been counting down the days. They don’t have much to do for the moment. I will be getting dressed in the arena, in an outfit not yet known to my stylist. So all they can do is put a few touches of make-up on my face that will be rendered obsolete by tomorrow. 

If I survive that long. 

It’s a relatively short flight to the arena, most of which is spent staring at my stinging arm where a tracker has now been placed. From there, we are taken underground to our final destination. A tiny room under the arena where tributes get changed and make their final preparations. 

Magnolia helps me into the outfit I am to wear before turning her attention back to my prep team, muttering instructions under her breath as they begin to pull out various products which I assume have to be for hair. I should have known they wouldn’t let me keep it down. Instead, it is pulled back into a tight ponytail high on my head, with so many pins keeping it in place that my tender scalp is already protesting. I have been informed twice during the process that I lack the bone structure to properly pull the look off, but that it will have to do. Because a week from now, the look will successfully hide most of the dirt and grease I will have accumulated. 

Perhaps I should thank them for believing I have the possibility of lasting that long.

I stand silently as I am poked and prodded one last time, before finally Magnolia declared I am ready. I’m not sure what I expect to happen next. There’s still four minutes before I am expected to step into the glass tube that will life me into the arena. Four final minutes of freedom, where I do not have to worry about being hunted. For a moment, I wonder if they will wish me luck, or provide final words of encouragement. Neither come. Instead, the trio immediately huddle in a corner on the opposite side of the room. Complimenting each other on what a fabulous job they had done despite the difficult circumstances and discussing a party that they will be all be attending later that night.

I no longer exist to them. 

Alone, I shakily pour myself some water and sip it. Staring hard at my prep team in the hopes one of them will catch my eye and at least have the decency to look guilty. They never do. And sudden rage bubbles silently within me, contrasting wildly against the absolute terror that had been my sole experience just a few minutes beforehand. 

I want to throw something at them. Beg them to hide me and sneak me out of the games. Sob on the floor until someone has to physically lift me up again. Instead, I sit and sip my water. Trying to ignore the light shake of my hand until finally I am being called to take my position. 

The last thing I see before I am raised out of the room, is Magnolia giving me one last glance, before flipping her hair and turning away. And I am plunged into darkness.


	11. Chapter 11

I had expected sunlight. 

Whilst the gamemakers may have prided themselves on their ability to continuously think up new and ambitious ways to kill us, the games almost always begin under similar circumstances. In a wide, open space, with enough light to ensure that the Capital’s eager viewers didn’t miss a single grisly death. And so, I’m surprised when I find myself in a heavily wooded area. The only break in the darkness coming from the few streams of sunlight that have managed to fight their way through the trees. Enough to ensure everything is visible, if only just. 

Frantically, I try to let my eyes adjust to the surroundings. There are trees everywhere. Blocking my direct path to the cornucopia, making it difficult to find who I am looking for. Where’s Murray? For a moment I worry he’s on the other side of the cornucopia. If he is, there’s a good chance I’ll be dead before I reach him. As much as I wish it wasn’t the case, I am relying on him to keep me alive during the initial bloodshed. 

For a moment, I consider running. Forgetting the plan to join with the careers and simply getting as far away from the action as possible. Maybe I can track the group down after a day or two, if I last that long. Without thinking, I find feet turning away from the cornucopia, ready to flee the moment the countdown has reached its conclusion. And then I see him. Partially obstructed by a knotted willow that looks like it had lived in that spot for generations, rather than being brought in by construction workers in the weeks leading up to the games. He’s already spotted me, brow raised in a way that suggests he is more than willing to follow me and drag me back to the group if I make any attempt at fleeing. 

Ten seconds. I feel sick. Whilst I’ve already turned myself back towards the cornucopia, my knees are shaking so frantically that I’m worried any attempts to move from my starting plate won’t go well. Nine. Eight. Seven. I squint through the dim light, trying to find something to aim for. Swords, a bow and arrow, knives. Six. Five. Knives. The knives are my best bet. Four. Three. Two. One.  
And then there’s chaos. 

I’m already running, legs carrying me towards the cornucopia long before my brain has registered what is happening. I almost trip over the knotted tree roots than line the forest floor, and those handful of seconds cost me. People have reached the centre, or have at least gotten close enough to find themselves armed. The knives however, have yet to be claimed. 

Trying to be more careful of my footing, and all too aware that many of the other tributes now have weapons. I don’t immediately notice that I am not the only person going for the knives until my hand clasps around a blade, just as another hand reaches for them. He falters, staggering back as he realises he’s lost the race. He’s not much bigger than me and perhaps knows that trying to take the knives through brute force may not work out in his favour. 

For a moment, our terrified eyes meet, and then he turns to flee. My hand is still wrapped firmly around one of the knives and I know what I should do. Letting him escape means one more tribute that will need to die later, and despite the commotion there will be sponsors watching this moment between us. Letting him go will suggest I’m weak.

I raise the knife, watching his retreating form. He’s not yet gotten more than a few meters away from me and lacks the sense to vary his movement. It would be an easy kill. But I can’t do it. Instead, my aim is purposefully wide. The knife grazing the boy’s arm but causing almost no damage as he scurried through the trees into the darkness. 

I’m an idiot. I know it the moment the knife leaves my hand. I’m an idiot who is going to die in this arena. 

Lingering on that particular thought however, is impossible. Not unless I want my death to be sooner rather than later. I’m frantically tucking a handful of knives into my belt when someone stumbles towards me. I scrambling to my feet, torn between drawing my knife and the overwhelming sensation to run and leave the rest of the weapons for their picking. 

And then I realise. 

It’s the boy from Eight, only distinguishable by the mop of red curls on his head. His face had been disfigured by what I can only assume was a sword, the deep laceration starting at his cheek and finishing somewhere around his navel. His clothes are soaked with blood, eyes rolling vaguely as he reaches for open air. 

I’m transfixed, unable to move as he finally loses is footing and falls towards me. Instinctively, I move to catch him but he’s too heavy. He crumbles to the ground, the last of his life disintegrating in front of me. 

“Annie?!” 

The word pulls me out of my daze, hurriedly reaching to wipe my blood-soaked hands on my trousers. Leaving the dying boy behind as I try to follow the noise, a silent apology on my lips.

“Annie?!” 

“I’m here!” I call, making my way around the cornucopia trying to locate his voice. He’s already accumulated a collection of swords and a spear. Looking relieved but triumphant as he closes the gap between us, stepping over a body as he goes. 

“Lost you in all the madness. Did you get anybody?” 

I shake my head as a response, only just noticing how quickly things have settled. Most of the tributes had already fled, presumably taking off into different areas of the woods, a good number were dead, or in the midst of dying. The latter was far worse. With dead bodies, at least you can tell yourself there was nothing you can do. With the dying, ignoring them feels like you are playing a direct role in their death. 

It’s selfish, awful even. But I can’t help but hope one of the other tributes put them out of their misery quickly, if only to lessen the guilt that is sitting heavy in my stomach. I should be sitting with them, easing their way out of this life. Instead, I am letting Murray lead me along as we begin to gather the remaining supplies. 

It doesn’t take long before the other’s join us. Antony has scratch marks down his cheek and one of Satine’s fingers looks broken, but as a whole they are relatively unscathed. 

“Why aren’t the cannon’s going?” Satine asks, she’s already rummaging around in one of the packs trying to find something to bandage her fingers together, though so far she’s not been successful. “Aren’t they all dead?” 

The twitching and moans had only taken a few minutes to subside into nothingness, and I can’t help but be thankful. The noises had felt like an accusation. 

“They won’t go until we’re out of here.” Murray retorts, sifting through the weapons undoubtedly trying to find a trident. 

We had all already agreed that we couldn’t stay in the area long term. There was too little visibility, and with no immediate source of water it would require leaving the camp frequently. And so, the plan was settled on. Find everything we need and destroy the rest, so nobody else could make use of it. 

Sorting through packs, every so often I find my gaze flickering towards Antony as he removes the jackets and socks from each of the dead tributes and tucks them into an empty pack. We had all agreed it was a good idea. He however was the only one who had seemed particularly keen on the task. I still can’t quick the feeling that he shouldn’t be trusted. Then again, neither should Honour, or Onyx, or even Satine. Whilst we are a team for now, eventually they will be the enemy too. 

It’s Honour who notices them first. She and Onyx had already given up theirs attempts at sorting through items and were busy sparring with swords when she paused, her harsh features contorting in confusion before shushing the rest of the group. 

One by one, we all hear it. The unmistakable sound of insects. 

There’s some argument over what to do, but eventually it’s decided that there is no point hanging about to discover the source of the noise. 

Packing everything, however, takes more time than anticipated. Even after ditching our methodical packing attempts in favour of stuffing everything of use into various packs, we’re still only half done when I see them. The swarm of insects beginning to gather around a body laying thirty or so meters from the cornucopia. 

For a moment we watch as the creatures hover around the body, curious to see what they are doing. Then suddenly Satine winces, swatting at something on her arm before three insects drop to the floor. They creatures can’t be larger than a few millimetres in length, and yet a steady trickle of blood stems from her arm from the spots the creatures had punctured. 

Slowly, we turn back to the body. Even from a distance it’s clear the colour has changed; pink skin turned a chalky white within minutes. “It’s draining their blood.” I whisper, horror distorting the words. The discomfort over the creature’s initial arrival now something else entirely. Finished with their initial meal, they were starting to shift. Lazily moving from their now finished feast in search of something new to drain. 

“We need to move.” 

No-one needs to be told twice. 

Scooping up whatever we can carry, we run in the opposite direction of the creatures blindly trusting whoever is leading the pack. Behind us, the insects follow. 

Stumbling through the woods, I wince as I feel bites on my leg and neck. The warm trickle of blood that eases down my skin as I frantically swat them away. Murray is in the lead, trying to guide the group to somewhere safe. I can see several of the creatures attached to his arms, blood staining other areas of his skin. 

We’re going to die. 

None of us stop running. I have no idea how far we’ve come. A mile? Two? The stitch in my side is screaming, though fear has allowed me to keep moving, knowing that giving into the pain and daring to rest would surely mean death. In the distance, the trees are starting to thin out as the woods subside, bringing about new terrain. 

The more the light pierces the forest, the less the flies seem like an immediate threat. In fact, the buzzing is almost quiet. Finally daring to look back, I see no more than a dozen of the things. One of the insects flies into a patch of sunlight and immediately drops to the floor, twitching. The other’s turn back. 

The closer to the sun we get, the softer the ground becomes. What was once solid dirt is now sinking with each new step. By the time we clear the trees, we are struggling through marsh. 

Marshlands seem to make up the majority of the area, though a large lake is the main feature. A gamemaker made dam keeping the water in place. 

At least we won’t need to worry about dying of thirst. 

Sinking down into the mud, we take a moment to go over our injuries. Everybody has received bites, though Satine seems worst affected. She is already on her back, her beautiful features pale as she tries to catch her breath. The other’s start to discuss camps whilst I sit beside her, rummaging through one of the bags trying to find some food for her. 

“Do you think this is it?” I ask, shifting my gaze up from the bag to look around. It’s a huge area, but there is almost nothing to it. Woods that are impossible to say in, and a marshland that seemed relatively safe but is so flat and open it would be impossible to hide from other tributes. Maybe that’s what the gamemakers want, tributes drowning one another in mud. I try not to shiver at the idea. 

Satine simply groans in response and accepts the bread I hand her. She’ll survive, but will likely spend the next day feeling like she has been hit by a wagon. 

When the canon goes, we all stop, counting the dead tributes. Nine. I can remember six bodies at the cornucopia, though I suspect the other three succumbed to the insects that drove us out of the woods and into the marsh. 

“Fifteen people left.” Onyx notes, voice cheerful as beginning to skin a furry looking creature he found near the edge of the marsh. We aren’t alone in the marsh, there are creatures everywhere. Everything we had encountered so far however, had been small and more likely a food source than a predator. 

That however, hadn’t stopped us being wary of venturing further in. 

We need to, eventually. The lake’s our only source of water and its closest point sits at least thirty meters away. But whilst we can still avoid the task, everybody seems happy to do so.

I’m struggling to start a fire in the mud when Honour shouts. Delight filling her tone as she points to the tribute on the other side of the marsh. He’s no more than a dot in the distance, wading through the ever deepening marsh to reach the lake. Honour is already gathering up her weapons when Murray reaches to stop her, shaking his head. “He knows we can’t get to him. He’s too far away.” 

This is true. The marsh is awkwardly shaped, and not easy to navigate. By the time Honour has found a safe route over the boy would likely already be gone. She brushes him off harshly, clutching her sword and instructing Onyx to accompany her. The pair have barely travelled five meters when she realised Murray is right, they’ll never get there. 

With a hiss of frustration, the brunette clenches her fists and turns to make her way back to the group, glaring at Murray as if her inability to reach the boy is somehow his fault. For a moment, I wonder if she’s going to start an argument. Perhaps her two kills already today simply aren’t enough for her. Murray waits for the impending comment, his expression challenging. Neither is helping the situation.

I shift my gaze between the two, searching for something that will diffuse the tension as quickly as it erupted. But I don’t need to. Instead, it is all too quickly pierced by a sound from across the marshland. Despite the distance, the noise is clear and filled with agony. 

The boy in the marsh. 

We all turn, expecting to find another tribute. Somebody closer, who had found a way to sneak up on him. Instead, he is being dragged further into the marsh by a creature. An alligator? Something gamemaker made? It’s too far away to see more than the struggling figure of the boy as he tries to beat the creature away with his knife, all the while being dragged deeper into the marsh until suddenly he is gone. 

Somewhere in the distance, the cannon booms.


End file.
